A Flying Affair (22 page)

Spring 1929

Iris and Hayden came for Easter the last weekend in March, and there was more than spring blooming. Iris had a little bun in the oven, and Hayden hovered over her like she was in danger of breaking.

When Iris sprang the announcement, they almost had to break out the smelling salts for Mittie's mother, who collapsed on the sofa and fanned herself for thirty minutes. She'd then risen like a phoenix and organized a shopping trip for Saturday afternoon.

They'd stopped in Nell's shop to give her the news, and while Nell showed them a line of baby bonnets that her friend Calvin Gold in New York had created, Mittie played with Mira at the back of the shop. Mira smelled of baby powder and milk breath, her hair as downy as a fluffy chick. Mittie pressed her to her chest, an odd sensation sending tingles to the tips of her toes. She shuddered, willing away the picture in her head of someday holding her own child.

Iris, though, was overjoyed at the prospect of being a mother and had been installed as the recording secretary of the Junior League of Birmingham. There weren't any late-night chats in Iris' old room, only talk of baby names and decorating the nursery of the three-story home Hayden had built for her.

Mittie and Calista signed up for a women's airspeed race in Chicago. At the end of April, Calista flew from Atlanta to Louisville so they could go together. At Chicago Municipal Airport they were given the race regulations for the ten-mile course that was laid out with pylons to serve as guides. Six laps at a maximum of three hundred feet in the air. A nice trophy for the winner and prize money for the top two finishers.

The air was electric as people gathered to watch the race and cheer for all the entrants, but mostly for a local woman who'd be flying in her first-ever race.

At noon, they lined up, engines running, and watched for the starting flag. Mittie took a deep breath, concentrating on the takeoff line six hundred feet ahead of her, the line that had to be cleared or she'd be immediately disqualified with no second chance. To her left, Calista waved.

It wasn't unlike flying with the Patriots, the planes keeping a safe distance but always within view. She banked left and rounded the first pylon, a pole with a balloon attached for easy visibility. Her instincts took over as she pushed
Belle
, urging her onward on the straightaway, keeping an eye out for the other planes. By the third lap, she'd found her groove and thought perhaps she was gaining on the plane that flew slightly above her. Adrenalin pulsed like a bass drum. Five laps done. Time for the push. She kept
Belle
at just over two hundred feet and pulled on the throttle. The wind ate at her cheeks, her mouth dry. She licked her lips to moisten them and circled the last marker. Homestretch.

When she passed the finish line, the sixth lap completed, she circled up and away from the course, nosing up to five hundred feet as required in the rules, then came in to land on the designated field. Two planes were already there. Her heart sank. A respectable third. Calista came in fourth. No money and no trophy, but it was hard to put a value on being a part of the sisterhood of fellow pilots.

The Chicago girl came in last place, but the crowd cheered like she'd won the Kentucky Derby.

The next day Calista wanted to see the sea lions at the Lincoln Park Zoo, so they rode the “L” from their hotel and stayed until after lunch, when Calista asked Mittie what she wanted to do next.

“I've always wondered what it was like for Lindbergh to fly over the Atlantic and see nothing but water. Since that's not going to happen anytime soon, let's see what it's like over Lake Michigan.” When Calista agreed, Mittie asked, “One plane or two?”

“Let's take yours. There's a clunk in my engine I want to have checked before we leave tomorrow. We can trade off so we both get a chance to enjoy the scenery.”

Before they took off, Calista talked to a mechanic about
Peaches
, then donned her leather helmet and climbed into the seat in front of Mittie. A headwind gave Mittie a little trouble on takeoff, but once they were airborne, she flew north along the shoreline, then banked right, flying over waters that looked like the meringue on one of Ruby's lemon pies. When the deep blue of the lake and the horizon became one, she leaned forward and nudged Calista to take over. Mittie hung as far over the side as she could with the safety strap that held her in the seat. They rode the wind currents like a seagull, Calista tipping the right wings down, then the left. The sun glinted from the surface in iridescent shards of cobalt and emerald. A scattering of clouds above them cast shadows on the waters, as if the mighty lake was sighing, giving up its secrets.

Mittie thought of Lindbergh spending thirty-three and a half hours above water, flying in the dark, lost at times, she was sure, only the stars and a compass to guide him. Goosebumps popped out on her arms, and she sighed as Calista turned back for safe harbor.

The next morning, they left for a long day of flying, hoping to make Louisville with just a brief stop in Indianapolis. Halfway to Indianapolis, Mittie rubbed the ache in her neck and watched a line of clouds forming southwest of her course. She prayed they were slow moving or would dissipate before reaching Indiana. Instead they grew darker and closer. She dropped her altitude to have a better view of the landscape in case she had to land quickly. When Indianapolis came into view, a sigh of relief escaped her lips. Calista was waiting for her on the runway with the news that the approaching storm would leave them grounded.

A knot formed in Mittie's chest, a yearning for the gentle rolling hills of home. Instead, it was another night in a hotel.

They ordered soup and sandwiches in the hotel dining room and picked up a Chicago paper to see if there was anything about the air race and found a lengthy article about the growing number of women pilots. They devoured the story, the sustenance that satisfied their craving to fly faster, higher, harder.

Clear skies promised a smooth ride home the next morning, the storm from the night before long gone, leaving only puddles and clean, crisp morning air. Two other planes were in line ahead of Mittie and Calista, and when they were well out of view, Calista strapped on her helmet and lifted her chin. “Race you home?”

“Why not? One last race for the road.”

Calista hopped on the wing and slipped into the cockpit, the warmed-up engine purring like a kitten.
Peaches
bumped along the runway, sending up a spray of water from the rutted grass of the field. And then she was airborne and winging her way home.

Mittie followed the same procedure, the taste of Kentucky sweet on her lips as she waited for the go-ahead and swung out onto the runway. It was rougher than she expected, the tail skid bouncing.
Steady on the rudder. You can do this.

Another bump and the tail kicked to the right, then jerked sharply left. Mittie eased back on the throttle, gaining control. Smoother now. Going for ground speed again, Mittie kept one eye on the gauges, hands engaged on the wheel. Almost there. Time to nose up. A huge bounce jarred her insides, the back of the plane fishtailing. And it felt like the rudder was jammed.

Turn around. Go back in.

But by then, she was off the ground, and she pictured
Belle
's wheels dangling like the charm on her horsehair bracelet. The plane jerked again, the tail bobbing like a rooster shaking its tail feathers. Mittie held her breath.
Belle
was twisting. Wings rocking.

A scream rose in Mittie's throat.
Rudder! Brake!

The right wing dipped. She overcorrected and slammed into the earth sideways on
Belle
's left wing. Crumpled. Her heart raced while her brain told her to get out fast. Her fingers wouldn't work the harness strap. Dobbs Lamberson's face flashed through her brain.

No, Dobbs! Not so fast. Keep your hands on the reins. Pay attention to what you're doing.

Then the image of her daddy.

I'm sorry, Daddy! I was only trying to get him to stop.

She fought to inhale. This wasn't a carriage ride. She was an experienced pilot.
Get. Out. Of. The. Plane. Please, Lord, help me!

The strap unlatched in her fingers, and she hoisted herself up. The acrid fumes of fuel seeped into Mittie's nose. An automobile roared down the runway toward her. She waved, then bent her knees and leapt to the ground. The impact jarred her bones, but she needed to get away. Adrenaline shot through her body. Legs churning, she ran away from the plane.

Two figures grabbed her. “Are you all right? What happened?”

She didn't answer, for at that moment a boom filled the air, and her beloved
Belle
went up in flames.

An hour later, she hadn't stopped shaking. She was alive, and for that she was grateful, but her heart felt hollow. What hadn't she noticed? What could she have done differently?

Bobby's words focused in her head. “Never chance a takeoff if you suspect something is amiss with your plane.” Amiss, yes—that was the word he used. Bobby and his refined British vernacular. Something had definitely been amiss with the rudder. A malfunction of some kind? She would never know. Ashes didn't generally have much to say.

The airport manager brought her a cup of steaming hot coffee and carried a clipboard to take down information about her and the plane. He waved someone into the room. A reporter with a camera.

“I've already snapped some pictures of the wreckage. I'd like a statement from you, if I could.”

How wonderful. All her mother needed was another reason to have nightmares.

He asked the same questions as the manager and asked what brought her to Indianapolis. She explained about the air race in Chicago and that she just wanted to get home.

“Air race, huh? Are you one of the women pilots the people in Chicago are crowing about? What did they call you—the Flying Flappers?”

“I've heard the term. But we're qualified the same as men and are just as capable.”

“So does this signal the end of your career, miss?”

Mittie rose and looked at the reporter at eye level. “Women are only beginning to show this country what they are capable of. And no, this is not the end of my career. It's only the beginning. And you can quote me on that, sir.”

The
Louisville Ledger
carried the picture of
Belle
's charred remains, but there was also a picture of Mittie, hair tangled, aviator helmet in hand. And they'd printed the quote she'd given. Word for word.

Her mother sighed when she saw the article, but bless her, she didn't offer any commentary. Mittie thought she detected a sparkle in her daddy's eyes, but it could have been just the light at the dinner table the day the newspaper came out. It was too soon to figure out what Mittie would do now, and she was grateful for their silence. At least she had survived and still had a job. Bobby sent a bouquet of spring flowers and called to check on her.

Ames also called and when she told him about the crash, he said, “Holy smokes!” followed by, “Sorry—poor choice of words. Are you all right?”

She assured him she was and asked how things were in California.

“Going like gangbusters. New plants opening up every day riding the wave of aviation.”

And Ames was riding it with them. Happiness for him hummed along Mittie's bones.

Calista stayed the remainder of the week trying to get up the nerve to fly on to Atlanta. They both knew that not all pilots walked away from their wreckage. Mittie returned to work the following Monday, and Calista stopped by the flying school to say good-bye.

“I know we're mortal enemies in the sky, but you're not half bad, Kentucky.”

“Just wait,
Peach
. I may be temporarily down and out, but I'm not finished. Not by a country mile.”

“Is Bobby around?”

“He has students until noon.”

“Fiddle. He told me last night he'd be in this morning. I need to tell him something.”

“I'm the official secretary. I can take a message.”

Calista gave her the evil eye. “It's personal. I'll call him when I get home.”

Bobby stopped in when he'd finished with his students. “May I take you to lunch?”

“I'm starving, so yes—I'd love that.”

As he drove to an Italian diner on Bardstown Road, Mittie told him Calista had stopped by to talk to him.

“Did she mention what it was?”

“Personal, she said.” Mittie surveyed the menu, one eye on Bobby.

He scowled and looked at the menu.

 They ordered and made small talk until their heaping plates of pasta with rich marinara and meatballs the size of small oranges arrived. Neither seemed anxious to talk about crashing her plane.
His
plane once. Halfway through the meal, Mittie started by telling him she was sorry.

“I'm the one with regret. I should have gone over it better before you left.”

“All's well that ends well. Except for not having a plane, that is.”

He nodded. “I know what you mean. I've had some close calls myself.”

“But you've never had one go up in flames.”

“You're right about that, but I've crashed more than once.”

“You're kidding. I thought you were like Zeus, lord of the skies.”

“Guess I have you fooled. My flying prowess, or lack of it, is one reason I came to the States.”

“I have wondered. Care to give me the details?”

“Simple, really. I was engaged to a girl in London, someone who traveled in the right circles and had the adoration of my parents. Her dad sits in the House of Lords, so you can imagine the sort of wedding it was going to be.”

“The kind my mother would drool over.”

“Actually Catherine was a lot like your mother. Refined and gracious. And terrified of my flying. Two days before the wedding, I crashed a small plane out in Essex. Fortunately, I walked away with only a bruised ego, but Catherine and I argued. She gave me an u
ltimatu
m—​her or my bloody airplanes. You can guess which I chose.”

Mittie took a deep breath. “And now you're the pariah of London.”

“Something like that. My father sent me over here until things cooled down, and I decided to stay—for a while I thought, just six months, but my heart was torn. I'd fallen in love with Kentucky and someone here.”

Mittie nearly choked. “Is she someone I know?”

Bobby leaned back. “Misfortune seems to be my shadow. Things don't always work out the way you hope.”

Her mother's words came back to her.
It's hard to risk your heart again.
Apparently Bobby had, and it had been torn yet again. He'd gracefully sidestepped revealing who it was. Calista? Or someone else? Calista's eagerness to talk to him made Mittie think she might be the one Bobby was referring to, but Bobby didn't ordinarily talk about his interests outside of work, and for him to say this much was puzzling.

“That stinks. What about Catherine? Did you see her in London?”

“Yes. I attended her wedding. Viscount Merkley is a financier and is deathly afraid of airplanes. It's a match made in heaven.”

“So you're no longer an outcast and could go back if you wanted?”

“Theoretically, yes, but I choose not to.”

“I'm glad. There are surely some other things you've not taught me.”

“Celestial navigation for one. There's nothing quite so spectacular as flying at night with only the stars as a guide.”

“When can we start?”

“Whenever you'd like.”

The promised instruction never came because exactly one week later, Mittie received an invitation from Elizabeth McQueen, president of the newly formed Women's International Association of Aeronautics, to fly in the inaugural transcontinental women's air race. In August. Just three short months away. Mittie didn't even have a plane, and the race started in California. What were the chances?
If it sounds too good to be true…

She tucked the envelope in the top drawer of her bureau next to Ames' locket and went out to ride Gypsy. The hair had grown back over Gypsy's injured knee, and only a discerning eye could detect the fine scar beneath it. Mittie's fingers went automatically to her face. It would never be as smooth as it once was, but the fine blemishes were a reminder of the grace she'd been granted time and again.

Gypsy's ears twitched, and Mittie relaxed the reins, the horse's toned body gliding into a trot. Mittie's thoughts drifted like the bits of cottonwood fluff floating in the air.
California
.
Women's air race.
Beneath her, Gypsy picked up the pace, taking the hill with ease. Then a shift in the saddle and Gypsy arched her neck, the ambling rhythm of her hooves on the ground as she did what her breed was born to do—the magnificent rack. Mittie held her breath, thinking she'd imagined it, but there it was. One. Two. Three. Four. Each hoof in perfect time. Mittie's heart swelled with the promise that, yes, one day Gypsy would enter the ring again and hear the applause.

When they returned to the stable, she told Toby that Gypsy was ready, that her training could resume. Mittie was ready, too. She took the letter from her bureau and showed it to Bobby when he came in for lunch the next day.

“I've just heard about it. You're accepting, aren't you?”

“The only obstacle I see is finding a plane. I was hoping you had some ideas.”

“I'll give Victor a call.”

“I'll talk to my parents tonight. And wire Ames.”

It was a mad scramble from that day forward. Mittie wired Ames at his hotel in San Diego and the next day received a reply.

Having a plane built in California made the most sense. Ames secured access to a hangar and offered to oversee building the plane. He suggested a two-seat mono-wing with adequate horsepower and safety features that Bobby agreed were excellent choices. Her dad consulted with his banker and offered to front the production costs. Almost weekly meetings followed. Her daddy. Bobby. Victor and others in the Aero Club who voted unanimously to sponsor Mittie's expenses since her dad was paying for the plane.

They worked with the organizers of the air race in Cleveland who had partnered with the National Exchange Club. The race would coincide with the Cleveland men's air race, but it was Mrs. McQueen who was the driving force with her declaration that “Women pilots are imperative to aviation's progress.”

The names of those who had accepted the invitation were circulated, and no one was surprised to see Calista's name on the list. Mittie sent her a note.
California or bust. The ultimate challenge, dear Peach.

Calista fired back.
This flapper is ready for you.

Production costs and tensions ran high as the heat of July bore down on them, and they tried to think of every eventuality. Mittie pored over maps, noting possible problem spots. Ames called with progress reports every few days. Mittie yearned for her dad to be on hand for the takeoff, but her mother, ever protective, was afraid the long trip would cause his back to flare up. He promised he would be at the finish line in Cleveland. Victor and Bobby, though, made plans to travel by car to California and follow the same itinerary as the women as they flew across the continent. Mittie would take the train a few days early to get used to the feel of the new plane before the race.

Finally, with every detail in place, Mittie packed for the trip. Ames called to wish her luck and that evening, she took his grandmother's locket from her drawer. She rubbed it on her cheek and slipped it around her neck.

Ames met her at the train station in Santa Monica with open arms. They took a taxicab straight to Clover Field, a sprawling airport buzzing with activity. Trucks hauling grandstands. Roped-off parking areas.

The reality of it began to sink in, and when she saw her new plane, Mittie's eyes stung with hot tears. It was a beauty. Canary yellow with two black wavy stripes down the side and the flying school's logo on either side. With the zeal of a puppy, Ames showed her all the features.

“Sweetest engine you can imagine.”

“One of yours?”

“Only the best for you, doll.” He kept his arm around her shoulders, kisses handy. “Want to sit in the cockpit?”

It was a perfect fit, and she was itching to fly it, but she needed to check in with the officials first and meet the other early arrivals. In the headquarters building, Mittie found the registration table and gave her information. She turned to see if she could spot any of the other pilots when a gregarious woman in blousy pants and short curly hair came up and introduced herself. “Pancho Barnes. And you must be the darling of Kentucky. Some peach from Georgia's told me all about you.”
The
Pancho Barnes, one of the contestants and already famous for her outrageous behavior and wily good humor.

Mittie shook her hand. “I'm thrilled to meet you. I just got in and didn't realize Calista—the one they call Peach—was already here.”

“She's around here somewhere.” Pancho jerked her head and said, “Come on—I'll introduce you to some of the gals.”

Mittie shrugged at Ames and asked if he wanted to tag along.

“It's your party, doll. I'll be around.”

Pancho lit up a slim black cigar and said, “Was that your mechanic?”

Mittie nodded. “And my best fella.”

“I figured from the way he was looking at you. Hey, Amelia, someone I'd like you to meet.”

Amelia Earhart.
Mittie's heart was in her throat, but Amelia was warm and welcoming as were all the others, the ones whose names were familiar from the newspapers—Ruth Elder, Louise Thaden, Bobbi Trout. They talked of the heat in the desert, the change of plans for one of the seventeen stops, and that there were more than a few men who were betting they would fail.

Pancho blew out a puff of smoke. “We're going to show 'em. You know the race motto, don't you? ‘A woman's place is in the sky.'”

Mittie caught sight of Ames in the corner of her eye. He stood, arms crossed, talking to a man in mechanic's coveralls, but his brows were scrunched together, lips pursed. When her eyes met his, he said something to the fellow and brushed past him. Mittie took that as her cue and told Pancho that the sky was where she was headed. “It's lovely to meet you all.” She stepped back from the group and the chorus of “Good luck!” and told Ames she was ready. Outside the hangar, she asked who he was talking to.

“Can't recall his name, but I've seen him around.”

“You didn't look too happy.”

“Guess I was thinking about us getting away while there's still plenty of sunshine.” He draped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a peck on the cheek just as Calista Gilson strode across the grass.

“If you two aren't the lovebirds.”

“Hey, Peach. Sounds like you're jealous.” Ames put his other arm around Calista.

“That's a laugh and a half.” She leaned in front of Ames and looked at Mittie. “Which one is yours?”

Mittie pointed to the canary yellow plane and Calista pointed hers out—a new Brunner-Winkle Bird, pale orange with her signature “Peaches” on the side and the Roman numeral II.

Mittie's eyes widened. “It's a beauty. But can it fly?”

“Ha! We'll see in two days.”

Mittie was getting itchier by the minute to get up in the air, but Calista pulled her aside and told Ames to scram, that she wanted to talk to Mittie.

“This better be short. We need to get in the air.”

“Short. Not so sweet, though. Listen—there's some rumors going around about Ames.”

“I hope you didn't start them.”

“No. I was having a little chat with some of the mechanics yesterday. Somehow your name came up, which led to one of them saying he'd heard of you, that Ames mentioned you in a poker game. I asked how much they took him for, and they all clammed up. But it was written all over their faces.”

Mittie's face grew hot, but it wasn't from the sun that was bearing down. Calista always made such a drama out of everything. “They probably clammed up so they wouldn't have to admit that he beat them. Not that I condone poker playing for anything more than match sticks, but why are you telling me this?”