Till We Meet Again (34 page)

Oh shit, but hadn’t everything been done? Amy Johnson had flown a smaller and far less powerful plane than this Ryan more than halfway around the world, and here, eight whole, long years later, where was she, Freddy, but right on course over the Twitchell Reservoir, a lousy manmade body of water, not an ocean or a sea or a desert or even a big river. At this rate she’d never get out of California!

At the small San Luis Obispo airport, Freddy ate the sandwich lunch she’d brought along, and refueled, noting anxiously that aviation gasoline was twenty cents a gallon. When she’d finally earned her private pilot’s license, her mother had insisted on taking out and paying for personal accident insurance for her as well as public liability and property damage. Without the insurance, which cost an additional hundred dollars, she wouldn’t have been able to continue to fly, but Freddy had to pay for gas herself.

It was one hell of an expensive passion, this way she felt about planes, and Freddy envied the women who had someone who supported them in their flying. Floyd Odium was behind his wife, Jackie Cochrane; Jean Batten, the great pilot from New Zealand, had been sponsored by Lord Wakefield, who had also helped Amy Johnson; Anne Morrow had her husband, Charles Lindbergh, to teach her to fly; and Earhart had the backing of her husband, the devoted George Putnam. Wasn’t there a man somewhere, rich and preferably very old, certainly not one with romantic inclinations, who would like to advance the cause of American aviation by paying her bills?

No, there was not, Freddy answered herself. Perhaps there might have been, if she’d come along ten years ago, when women were first making their memorable marks in the air, but now the great days of the pioneers were past. Well, she might be too late for fame, but there had to be
something
left to do, and she was going to find it!

She knew it as surely as she had always known she was going to fly. She’d been right about that, she thought, looking around the unfamiliar little country airport that she’d never seen before and that she had found without wasting a mile of sky, as if there had been markers and arrows hanging in the air.

Last summer she hadn’t even started to learn how to fly, and now she was a full-fledged pilot. If she had the time, the maps, and the money for gas and food, she would take the Ryan straight up to Alaska or way down to the tip of South America. She could start this very minute, knowing nothing more than what she knew already.
She knew enough to do it
. That was the essential thing. The rest would fall into place—she’d make it happen somehow. Freddy thanked the boy who pumped the fuel, made a pass at combing her hair, and climbed back into the yellow Ryan with a light heart.

Several hours later, Freddy was close to the approach to Dry Springs. The flight back had been so uneventful that she’d been tempted to take a few detours and stop at Santa Maria and Santa Barbara, just to enjoy the airport atmosphere and trade a little shop talk with whoever happened to be on the landing strip there, but she knew that Mac would have estimated how long her cross-country flight would take, and that he’d worry if she was late. She’d navigated so exactly, the winds had been so favorable, that she was a good twenty minutes before her scheduled time of return.

There was still time, she realized, with a tense plunge of excitement. It was the perfect kind of day, with unlimited visibility. And she was still far enough from Dry Springs
so
that nobody would see her. There was not another plane in her neighborhood. It was destiny, Freddy told herself, clearly destiny, that had provided her with this chance to try something she’d been studying for months in her cherished pilot’s handbook by Jack Hunt and Ray Fahringer. She saw the introductory page to the “Acrobatic Phase” chapter of the book clearly in front of her. She’d memorized every word.

First of all the student must understand that he is always “a part of the aircraft” the moment he fastens his safety belt. From that time on, regardless of what position the ship may assume, upright or inverted, the pilot is always sitting in the same position relative to the airplane … and the controls respond accordingly. This being understood, it is obvious that the pilot need only to “observe” where he is going and “fly” the aircraft. He has been doing exactly this in all of his normal flying…

Well, what could be clearer than that? More reassuring?

 … the loop is the easiest acrobatic maneuver to perform as it is the least complicated of all … set the throttle at normal cruising RPM. Now, ease the airplane into a gentle dive … as soon as sufficient speed has been obtained, ease back on the elevators and begin the upward arc of the circle …

She had flown a thousand loops in her mind, Freddy thought as she took the Ryan up to five thousand feet, an absolutely safe altitude at which to perform the maneuver. She could recite her handbook’s list of usual student faults backward and forward in her sleep. The clear diagrams were engraved on her brain. She hadn’t actually executed a loop. Not in a plane. But today she was flying the stock ship with the stock engine favored by Tex Rankin, the national aerobatic champion. Hadn’t Rankin himself said that precision aerobatics made for a safer pilot? And didn’t she owe it to herself to do something special to celebrate? Celebrate her graduation. Celebrate getting her pilot’s license last month. Celebrate today’s realization that she would not be intimidated by the towering figures of Amy Johnson and Earhart and Cochrane.
Yes!

Freddy cautiously put the Ryan into a dive, and as soon as she’d reached a proper speed she began to pull the nose of the plane upward. Gradually she pushed the throttle until it was fully advanced, so that she obtained maximum power. A hundred and twenty-five inexhaustible horses were at her command, galloping forward at the lightest pressure of her hand. What bliss, after hours of meticulous navigation, with
its pure, austere mathematical pleasures, to make this rushing, heart-pounding leap into the sky.

She held the Ryan in the arc of the circle, and as it reached the partially upside-down position, she threw her head back to observe the nose of the ship cross the horizon. She was a kid on a swing who
can
go over the top, who
can
escape the limitations of gravity for one blinding moment of elation. As the Ryan completed the loop and swung upward again, recovering, Freddy found herself laughing with the giddiness of a child, yet in total control of the ship. She did another loop. And another. And another. Only after a dozen loops could she persuade herself to stop, and then only by remembering how close she was to Dry Springs.

Soberly, flying like an elderly gentleman out for a Sunday drive, except for the uncontrollable grin on her face, she gradually lost altitude and made her usual immaculate landing. She looked around at the field. All was quiet. Several other fliers were fussing about, some of them taking off for a sunset spin, and others putting their planes to bed, but at the hangar of McGuire’s school there was no one to be seen. She tied down the Ryan and started toward the office, swaggering like a pirate as she hummed “Till We Meet Again” in triple time. She was filling out her logbook as she heard the Taylor Cub land and its engine shut down.

“Just what the hell do you think you were doing!”
Mac yelled as he burst furiously into the office, his hand raised to hit her. Freddy drew back, terrified, putting his desk between them, and he lowered his hand.
“Answer me!”
he shouted, violent in a way she had never believed he could be.

“I was practicing … loops,” Freddy stuttered.

“How could you dare try a stunt like that!
You could have killed yourself
, you stupid,
stupid
kid, don’t you understand that?”

“The book says …”

“What damn book?”

“My
Student Pilot Handbook
 … Mac, it’s all in there, everything, every detail.… I knew exactly how to do it, it’s the easiest maneuver in the book, I took every precaution, and the ship is suitable for doing the toughest aerobatics.…” Her words were stopped by the look of murderous rage in his eyes.

“God damn you, Freddy. Nobody,
nobody
is ever allowed to start doing stunts without an instructor and without a
parachute! You weren’t even smart enough to know that every plane that was up this afternoon within fifty miles could see you clearly,
you dumb, arrogant kid!
I’ve never witnessed such an exhibition of criminal carelessness! You could lose your license for what you did. You could have blacked out and crashed, you damn fool! The Ryan goes 280 miles an hour at the bottom of the loop. Did you happen to know that detail, Freddy?
God damn you to hell!”
Mac folded his arms, his fists clenched, his lips tight, and glared at her while he waited for her answer.

Freddy looked around the bare office wildly for a place to hide, and not finding one, threw herself against a wall to hide her face. She was helpless to stop the tempest of wrenching sobs that overcame her. He was right, she was utterly wrong, and she had nothing to say for herself. All she felt was the most shameful, utter humiliation. It would be meaningless to say she was sorry. The crime was too big. He hated her. Crushed by most bitter guilt she wept harder and harder, beating her fists against the wall in useless, abject remorse. Finally, after long minutes, Freddy put her hands in front of her face and began to stumble out of the office as quickly as she could, needing only to get to the sanctuary of her mother’s car.

“Back in here!”
Mac roared. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t take any more of his rage. He pounced on her, turned her around, and forced her hands down from her face. “Are you ever,
ever
going to do that again?” he demanded.

She couldn’t speak but she shook her head in a way that left no room for doubt and pulled away, moving in the direction of the car. He grabbed her again. “You’re not going to drive anywhere till you get hold of yourself, for Christ’s sake. Come on, sit down and stop it!”

She mopped her eyes and blew her nose, still quivering with diminishing sobs. He stood with his back toward her, looking out the window at the planes that were landing one by one. Sunday fliers reluctantly returning to earth. Finally she was able to speak.

“Can I go home now?”

“No, you cannot. Not until we have a clear understanding. Why did you do those loops?”

“I was feeling … happy.”

“So you decided to stunt?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you do so many loops?”

“It felt so good. I loved it.”

“Do you promise never to do it again?”

“I promise.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Mac! I swear I won’t. How can I convince you? I’ve learned my lesson—I’m not a liar, don’t you trust me?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t think you’re dishonest, I think that you truly believe you won’t stunt again, but one day, somewhere safe, when you know that I’m two hundred miles away, the temptation will be too strong and you won’t be able to resist it. Now that you’ve started, you won’t be able to stop. I know a thing or two about that. It’s bound to happen, no matter what you say.”

“I can’t stop you from thinking whatever you want to think,” Freddy said miserably. This meant that he’d never let her use the Ryan again. She’d be back flying the slower, less powerful Taylor, if he even let her use any of his planes.

“Aerobatics is a science, Freddy, not a dumb-ass whoop and a holler. Recklessness is intolerable. Unpardonable. Unforgivable. Aerobatics requires more work, more repetitive precision practice, than any other form of flying.”

“I understand. Mac, I wouldn’t dream …” Freddy began hopelessly. He quirked a cynical eyebrow at her.

“You wouldn’t dream?
That’s exactly what you’d do. I know you too well, kid. If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s that you’ll dream. I’ll teach you aerobatics. It’s the only way to make sure that the next time you pull something like you did today, you’ll know what the hell you’re doing.”

“Mac?… Mac?”

“Now, get the hell out of here. Go home.”

As he watched Freddy drive away, McGuire thought that he had never come so close to hitting a female in his life. And when she’d cried so terribly, he’d never wanted to comfort anyone so much. Christ! That kid was more trouble than she was worth. But damn, those loops had looked good. And if he didn’t teach her aerobatics, someone else would.

10

E
VE riffled through the pages of the morning newspaper as she relaxed in the sunny breakfast room. Paul had left for the Consulate; her two daughters were at school; the efficient staff in the kitchen was already busy with preparations for the luncheon she was giving today for a number of the ladies of the French community; yesterday she had arranged the roses from the garden, and placed them throughout the house, so that, for the moment, she could give herself up to the idle pursuit of the news of the world, or at least that view of the world that the Los Angeles paper considered important.

It was May of 1936. France was paralyzed by strikes after the electoral victory of the Popular Front, whose members included a surprisingly large number of Socialists and Communists; Mussolini’s war against Ethiopia was over, and an Italian viceroy ruled over millions of miles of North Africa; Hitler’s Wehrmacht had occupied the formerly demilitarized zone of the Rhineland in defiance of the League of Nations, a move that was roundly condemned by Belgium, England, France and Italy, although nothing whatsoever was done to stop him. In Los Angeles, the front-page news was the marriage of Douglas Fairbanks, Sr., and Lady Sylvia Ashley.

With relief, Eve turned to the story of the wedding. Here was a woman who, according to rumor, was the daughter of a footman, a woman who had briefly been a “starlet,” whatever that might have meant, in a London theatrical revue, and then managed to marry the heir to the title and fortune of the Earl of Shaftsbury. Now, eight years later, divorced from Lord Ashley, she had just picked off one of the greatest movie stars in Hollywood.