Maiden Flight (19 page)

“The drapes of secrecy do not fit the captains and benefactors of mankind.” So says the latest issue of
Popular Science Monthly
. “The Real Fathers of Flight” indeed! I ask you, who is Mr. John R. McMahon to decide what the public needs to know about our family's affairs? My private life is nobody's business but my own. To think that Kate and I actually welcomed that man under our
roof, gave him the run of the house for two weeks, shared family intimacies and personal documents with him—and now, years later, over my protests, he abuses the privilege we extended to him by publishing trivial tittle-tattle. I scarcely know which is more despicable: the Smithsonian's lies and deceptions or these flagrant invasions of my privacy.

I sometimes wonder if Anne McCormick has any more scruples than the rest of that lot. The nerve of her, barging in here and lecturing me on my duty toward my own sister. I'll have to watch my tongue around her or she'll be spreading rumors too. Next thing you know the reporters will be fabricating stories about why Will and I never married. I can see the headlines now: “Extra! Extra! Inventors of Aeroplane Had Secret Love Lives! Our Special Correspondent Reveals the Human Heart That Beats Behind Mr. Orville Wright's Unruffled Exterior!” I wouldn't put it past the newspapers to concoct a fairy tale about a childhood sweetheart, or even about “goings on” between me and Miss Beck.

I hate to punch a hole in their balloon, but the real Orville Wright cuts a less romantic figure. The occasional family wedding is as close to the altar as I am likely to get. But just ask Bus and Sue what their Uncle Orv is made of. Organizing their getaway was one of my finest hours, if I say so myself. To begin with, I parked my Franklin alongside a vacant lot behind the bride's home. Then I left the wedding reception early and drove away with a posse of young scalawags from the party hot on my tail. I cut across a field to shake them off, the newlyweds following hard on my heels. When we reached Hawthorn Hill, Bus and Sue scampered through the hall to the back entrance and down the hill to catch a streetcar on Harmon Avenue. I waited until they had made their escape,
then lit all the lights in the house and invited everyone in. That beats racing along Far Hills Avenue at forty miles an hour any day!

On the other hand, my latest brush with matrimony was no laughing matter. Last summer Carlotta Bollée and her daughter did me the “honor” of paying me a visit. I could hardly turn them away, seeing as how the late Mr. Bollée was so helpful to Will in France before the war. But I did take the precaution of asking my sister-in-law to stay in the house as a chaperone. Soon enough, Madame Bollée started making insinuations, which I managed to ignore. But when she let out that she looked forward to seeing Niagara Falls—presumably in the company of you know who—before returning to Europe, I realized I had better act quickly. I told her that train reservations to Niagara were hard to come by, but I would see what I could do. Then I had Miss Beck telephone the ticket office and book the Bollées berths on a train departing that very afternoon. After shooing them out of the house, I took off like a shot for Lambert Island—alone.

It's good to know that Orv's friends are keeping up with him. I am always so glad to hear that Griff is coming to Dayton or to the bay—and yet sad too, because I know that my share in the enjoyment of his visits is past. Orv is at his best on the island, and Griff has been coming up so long that he feels completely at ease. If only they could find a way to spend more time there together. Still, Bob Hadeler must be a good companion for Little Brother. He was always such a nice boy and has had a very good upbringing. I imagine he sleeps in my old room in the big cabin. I wonder if old
Mr. France, George's father, is still living. And are the Williamses and McKenzies on their island, and does Orv still get milk down across from Tomahawk, at the Indian's? And is there still such a mess of children there? They were interesting and well behaved.

When I opened Griff's package last fall and saw his photograph, I nearly wept for joy. I always did want him to have a portrait taken, and I am as pleased as I could be to have one here in Kansas City to remind me of him. It is good of Griff not to drop me now that I am not in Dayton. I care so much to keep up every connection with our old friends—especially the ones who were associated with Will as well as Orv. And Griff is the most special of all. I can never think of him without thinking of the boys.

Some way I seem to need friends more than ever these days—even Stef, dear, disappointing, exasperating Stef. How queer it is, to be sure: I once had a feeling deep down in my heart that I would never see Stef again, that despite our special friendship we were too different to understand each other and were bound to go our separate ways sooner or later. There were long stretches when I didn't hear from him at all, and the few letters I got were not very informative. But he too has stayed in touch after his fashion and writes or cables us every time he happens to be passing through Kansas City. I expect he does the same with Orv. What a trump Stef is, for all his flaws!

It was only a few weeks ago that Stef paid us one of his flying visits. He phoned from the station and came out to the house for a few hours. Poor man—I'm afraid we rather overwhelmed him with stories of our newfound wealth and happiness. It really has been the most extraordinary experience. Mr. Seested, the
Star
's top executive, died in October, and as a consequence Harry was
named editor as well as first vice president of the company. He even had another increase in salary—his second in a little over a year. We still owe a quite respectable amount of money to the bank for the staff's purchase of the paper, but the stock is such a wonderful investment. The share value seems to grow and grow like a beanstalk. So we are getting rich quite unexpectedly—but, as Harry says, it keeps us poor while we are getting rich!

We always used to say that when we “got the
Star
bought” we would go on a trip to Europe, but I never dreamed that day would arrive as soon as this. Harry has fixed things so he can be away from the office for six whole weeks. It will be simply heavenly. We'll troop around everywhere hand in hand and have the gayest time. How unspeakably romantic it feels to be going on our
second
honeymoon—and the first one only two years behind us!

Talk about shades from the past—who should turn up the other day but Frank Lahm. He had just come over from Paris and was on his way to Texas to visit his son and daughter-in-law. It's always a pleasure to see Mr. Lahm. He was a good friend to us back when Will and I were dickering with the French over the flyer. He asked me to write the foreword to a book on aviation that he hopes to publish with one of the New York houses. I owe it to him, I reckon, though I don't relish the thought of writing such a piece without Kate to back me up. She always was fond of old Mr. Lahm. And young Lieutenant Lahm clearly carried a torch for her when I was in the hospital after my accident. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me a bit to learn that he made Swes a proposal of marriage. It must
have been a temptation to them both—but she was still on my side in those days.

Hawthorn Hill isn't the crossroads it used to be when Kate was the lady of the house. Still, I get a respectable tally of visitors for an old retired man. A bunch of them turned up last month for the twenty-fifth anniversary of the first flight, including a number of delegates to the big Civil Aeronautics Conference in Washington who stopped off in Dayton to pay their respects. There were the usual banquets and ceremonies and hot-air speeches about Will and me belonging “to the immortals of all history”—as if we were
both
dead and gone to our rewards. The president said nice things about us at the opening of the conference, and afterward Congress finally got around to awarding Will and me the Distinguished Flying Cross. The Post Office Department even brought out a new two-cent stamp commemorating our flight at Kitty Hawk. That beats all!

On the seventeenth of December last, a group of us took the steamer from Washington to Norfolk, and from there we traveled overland to North Carolina for the laying of the cornerstone of the Wright brothers monument. Below Kill Devil Hills, near the spot where we got the flyer up into the air, there is a plaque stating that Will and I made “the first successful flight of an airplane.” Short, sweet, and factual. I hadn't been back to Kitty Hawk since the year before Will died and was interested to observe how little the place has changed. There are the same scrub trees, the same wood-frame cabins, the same seamless expanse of sand, water, and sky stretching as far as the eye can see. The dunes have shifted about a good deal, but I reckon we were standing close to where Will and I
pitched our camp that first summer. About the only things lacking to complete the picture were the wild pigs and marsh mosquitoes!

Meanwhile, over in merrie olde England, Griff was standing beneath the 1903 flyer at the Science Museum in London, addressing a meeting of the Royal Aeronautical Society. By all accounts, he gave an admirably full and succinct summary of our work. Dr. Abbot and his associates at the Smithsonian could learn a thing or two from it, if they took the trouble to read the press reports. In fact, so many articles on the first flight have come out in the past few weeks that a person would have to go out of his way to avoid them. The McCormicks came to the house for dinner over the holidays, and I showed Anne the big spread on the anniversary in
Airway Age
. She paused when she came to the picture of Kate, as if she expected me to say something. But I held my tongue. Swes walked out of my life two years ago, and it will take more than an old photograph in a magazine to bring her back.

I have had my share of ups and downs these past few weeks, sure enough—the ride has been almost as bumpy as my maiden flight in an airplane! First thing after Thanksgiving I came down with the flu and kept to my bed for ten days with a blazing fever. By the time the big celebration for the boys rolled around on Wright Brothers Day, I was pretty much right as rain. Even so, I stayed away from the anniversary dinner in Kansas City for fear it would annoy Orv if anything was said about me—especially after one of the Cleveland newspapers dug up that old wives' tale about me chipping in my own money to help Will and Orv. “Without Kitty
Wright there might have been no Kitty Hawk”—what bosh and nonsense! I have written to the Associated Press to request that their members remove that old, worn-out
Hampton's Magazine
story from their morgues. It must be on its last legs by now, but it positively refuses to lie down and die!

I
did
write a letter to Mr. Kent Cooper of the AP—my recollection is quite clear on that point. But did I ever put it in the letter box? I s'pose it's just conceivable that it
might
have slipped my mind. My memory is getting to be awfully wobbly. I certainly mixed things up royally on Christmas morning. After we got through opening presents, I found that table runner, unaccountably, with no card near it. The only reason I am sure it came from Dayton is that it was in a Rike-Kumler Department Store box. For the life of me I still don't know
who
sent it to me. And for the longest time I couldn't think what my friend Irene had given me—though I opened the package myself and later
wore the apron
! Then all of a sudden when I went to get another apron to get dinner, on Ollie's night out, it came over me in a flash—the nice apron Irene made for me. Can you beat that? My only excuse is that I was terribly tired, and I'm always a perfect dunce when I get really exhausted.

It didn't do much to improve my performance to know that Harry wasn't feeling any too zippy himself. Fortunately, he is not as slow off the mark as Orv and I are when it comes to taking medical advice. When Dr. Bohan examined him and identified a kidney stone as the cause of his discomfort, he phoned the Mayo Clinic straight away and made an appointment to have it out at the end of January. Everyone in Minnesota was very nice to us, just as they were the time Orv was treated there for his sciatica.
The Mayos—Dr. Will and Dr. Charlie—stopped in to see Harry on their rounds every morning, and he got a lot of information from them on the early days of the clinic. I'll bet my last cent that sooner or later he'll turn it into an article or editorial. Newspapermen are almost as bad as scientists—never off the job for a minute!

It felt strange for me to be nursing Harry, instead of the other way around—but the tables were turned right back again soon enough. It's just my luck. I hadn't quite gotten over the flu that laid me low before Christmas, and the weather in Minnesota was bitter cold—anywhere from about ten to twenty-eight degrees below zero. Anyhow, the day after Harry left the hospital, I came down with a terrific cold—I was practically an invalid the whole time he was recuperating from his surgery at the hotel—and it has only gotten worse since we came home. Poor Charlie Taylor! He has never been one of my personal favorites, though Will and Orv were devoted to him, but we were pretty poor company the day he stopped off here on his way west. Anybody could see how he was dying to talk about the old days and working with the boys on the flyer—and there we sat, Harry and I, like a pair of thick-witted bumps on a log.

All I could think of the whole time Mr. Taylor was here was how we had to save up our strength for our big trip. I've been busy as anything—trying to get my clothes ready, my teeth fixed up, my passport photo taken, and any number of odds and ends that have been neglected. It has only been in the last two or three days that I could get out at all. There is so much to do—and less than two weeks left! Harry has taken care of all the arrangements. We sail from New York to Naples and plan to go straight on to Athens, if he feels equal to it. The Lords are living there this year—Louis is
the annual professor at the School for Classical Studies—and this is the year of all years for us to see Athens. I 'spect we'll spend most of our time in Italy, though, and maybe come home by the North Atlantic, stopping in London to see Griff. Harry is so delighted over going to Italy. He says it takes the curse off his operation!

We'll visit Rome, of course—I wouldn't miss that for anything. I wonder if the Hotel Russie is still open for business. The boys and I stayed there in 1909. It backed up against the slope of the Pincian Hill and had a lovely garden with a fountain, where meals were served in mild weather. I fell for Italian cooking almost as hard as I fell for the fountains. Maybe we'll stop in France too, or maybe not—we don't know exactly. We'll see how strong Harry is. I used to dream that Orv, Harry, and I could get up a little party and take a cruise to that part of the world. I am bound and determined to see the South of France again before I die. It's my special place—my Carcassonne, you could say.
Tout le monde a son Carcassonne
—“Every man has his Carcassonne”—and every woman too!

How sad it is to think that the peasant in the poem didn't get his wish—

But I will—
I will see Carcassonne!
Can it be that my wish is actually coming true, after all these years? How delightful it will be to go back to the dear old places with Harry by my side—to bury myself in his arms, without a care in the world, and sightsee to our hearts' content. My head spins like a top to think of it! It's like another dream—a tale of star-crossed lovers, only
this
time with a happy ending. We'll spoon and coo like a pair of lovebirds, the way we used to do in the “blue room” at Hawthorn Hill. We were bold and shameless, mister, I must say—with Little Brother asleep right down the hallway!

Harry, dearest, do you remember that
magical Illumination Night at Oberlin? The campus was all aglow with Japanese lanterns, you were coming on to me, and I was growing sillier by the minute. An enchanted evening! It was all so unreal, almost as if we were suspended in time. One more breath and we would be sitting across from each other at dinner in Mrs. Morrison's boardinghouse—or walking back from chapel together the day I received the prize for my essay on the Monroe Doctrine. I do believe I would have agreed to marry you right then and there if you had asked me, Mr. Haskell! But I'm not sorry about the past. We could have been a good deal to each other, but we have each other now and that is so exquisite—and we have so much more to give each other than we would have had all those years ago. No, my own darling, we won't spend any vain regrets over those thirty-four years. We'll just make the most of the time that is left for us to be together.

Time—bless my soul, how it does fly! May I tell you a little secret, Harry dear, a very
secret
secret, something I have never told
anyone
before? Every now and again I feel as if I have slipped
these mortal coils and am riding alone in my own personal flying machine. Up and up and up I climb, higher and higher and higher, until my head is poking above the clouds and I catch a little glimpse of heaven. If only my friends back home could see me now—little Katie Wright from Dayton, Ohio, doing the bird act! And who is that, way down below on the ground? Why, it's Orv, propped up on his crutches and gazing up at me with love in his eyes. If I bend down, I can practically touch him—but no, now he's gone, vanished behind a cloud. Where are you, my darling Little Brother? And Will? I hear your voice calling to me—“Swes! Swes!”—but you are nowhere to be seen. Won't you come back, come back to your Sterchens?

Ah, Lorin, here
you
are, at least. What a good brother you have been—sweet and thoughtful and true! Yes, it's Phiz, standing before my very eyes, large as life. Now, where can Orv be? Lost and gone forever, I fear. But wait! Someone is leaning over me, someone is whispering in my ear—whispering Orv's name—his blessed, blessed name. Here he is!—Little Brother, right by my side, smiling that sweet, crinkly smile of his. Of course I know him—how could I not? Or is this just another fairy tale, a dear, insubstantial fancy? Come to me, Orv! Come to me, Harry! My darling boys, come to me and let me release you. I can never have you both, I see that now—I can never go home again—but I can still dream. Yes, I still have my dreams! Truly,
tout le monde a son Carcassonne
!