Maiden Flight (6 page)

I confess I had my suspicions about Stef even before the Wrangel Island business blew up in our faces in the fall of '23. Up to then I had done my best to be agreeable, knowing how attached he and Kate were to each other. But the news reports of the incident left me no alternative. Kate showed me a letter that Harry had sent her from London, and I was glad to see that he sized Stef up in just about the same way I had come to think of him—as someone who sincerely believed that he was a special pet of the gods. Even Kate had to admit that his conduct toward me in that matter showed that he was not to be trusted.

Things had looked very different two years earlier, when Stef launched his first expedition to the island. In those days he could do no wrong in our eyes. He impressed both Kate and me as a romantic adventurer straight out of the pages of
Robinson Crusoe
. And Wrangel was his very own Island of Despair. Nobody could have been more taken aback than I was when Stef announced his intention to colonize it in the name of King George. The ship's crew was ludicrously small—three American sailors and one Canadian, plus an Eskimo cook—and they were woefully unprepared for the harsh conditions they encountered above the Arctic Circle. A year later, when it proved necessary to send fresh supplies, I loaned Stef three thousand dollars to outfit a relief ship. But ice prevented the
Teddy Bear
from getting through to the island, and no further attempt was possible until 1923.

That summer, while Kate and I were at the bay, Griff Brewer decided to raise money for a second expedition through a public subscription in England. Imagine my surprise when I learned that
the biggest contributor to the Wrangel Island Relief Fund was the British Wright Company. The board of directors had blithely voted to give my money away and notified me after the deed was done. Both Griff and Stef betrayed my trust in the most inexcusable fashion. But their underhanded scheming came to naught. By the time the second relief ship reached the island, the white men were all dead. Only the Eskimo cook and her cat had survived. A few months later, a Russian crew arrived and planted the Soviet flag on the island. In the end, those men's lives had been sacrificed for no nobler cause than to feed Stef's insatiable ambition.

It goes without saying that I wanted nothing more to do with the man after that. But Stef was still Kate's friend, and I couldn't very well
not
invite him to Dayton for the twentieth anniversary of the first flight. He and Mr. Akeley came from New York for the ceremony at the National Cash Register Hall. Stef was one of the featured speakers, following Governor Cox. The poor governor was so anxious to do well that he did his very worst. He didn't get any of his facts straight but soared and soared into the stratosphere until at last he ran out of steam and sat down. After that sorry performance, it was a relief to listen to a scientist who actually knew what he was talking about. The gist of Stef's remarks was that Will and I had made the world round a second time because the aeroplane can go east or west right over the poles. He said people had grown accustomed to thinking of the world as a cylinder and not as a sphere.

Stef is a splendid talker, but actions speak louder than words. When he returned to Dayton after Christmas, I read him the riot act. He actually had the good cheek to tell Katharine he was glad in a way that the
Teddy Bear
had not gotten through the ice in 1922,
because the Canadian government had not yet taken responsibility for occupying Wrangel Island. Kate reminded him that in his letter asking me for money, he had emphasized that lives might be at stake. That embarrassed him for once! Yet even then Stef continued to defend everything he had done. From his point of view, his schemes were so important for the advancement of science that he was justified in carrying them out at all costs. I was more than ever convinced that Kate was unwise to trust Stef a bit. Either he lacked conscience or he simply had different ideas of right and wrong from ours.

I was still reeling from Stef's behavior when I discovered that Griff—of all people—had gone back on me in an unbelievable way in connection with the sale of British Wright. As he well knew, I was anxious to wind up the company's affairs and prevent anybody from peddling our patents in Belgium and Italy. British Wright had already lost thirty-five thousand dollars over the past five years. Griff actually expected to use up all the remaining funds—between twenty-five and thirty thousand, half of which was rightfully mine—on his own salary and expenses. He was planning to travel to Alaska to make sure that the one surviving white man and the ten or twelve Eskimos still stranded on Wrangel Island in the wake of the various relief expeditions could return to the mainland, if they wanted to. As Kate observed, between enjoying grandstand plays and liking to travel, Griff's “duty” would have been very clear to him and very expensive to us.

By a stroke of sheer luck, the deal for British Wright fell through at the eleventh hour, so Griff was beaten at his own little trick. Swes and I even wound up getting more than seventeen thousand dollars out of the company. We had been prepared for years
to have that all used up by Griff, and it would have gone that way without protest on my part if he hadn't gone a little too far in contributing my money to Stef's plans without my knowledge. The whole business left me sick to the stomach. I arranged to have the sale of my stock in the company taken care of through the bank. I knew it would hurt Griff's feelings, but I was in no mood to let him handle any more of my affairs.

Still, I never can stay mad at Griff for long, not after everything he has done for us—not least making the arrangements for sending the flyer to London. I had about reached the end of my rope with the Smithsonian when he came up with his proposal, and I jumped at it. In fact, I was all ready to start reassembling the machine for shipment when, as luck would have it, my back gave out again. Something seemed to snap while I was bending over the washbowl in the bathroom, and I realized too late that I had neglected to put on my supporting belt. The ensuing attack of sciatica put me out of commission for weeks. It was more than a year before I had the strength to get back to work on the flyer—and another four years before it finally went on display at the Science Museum. Five years! Why, it didn't take Will and me that long to invent the confounded machine in the first place.

Between Orv's busted back, Harry's loneliness, and getting my feet on the ground as an Oberlin trustee, I had my work cut out for me in the early months of 1924. At least I could make Bubbo's life easier by doing things around the house, even if I was a miserable failure at making progress on the book. But Harry was so far
away—and so very, very vulnerable. I knew all about the things he found so dark and forbidding when he returned to Kansas City as a widower. I loved him for that—for all the loyalty and devotion, and for all the heartaches too. Will's death had affected me the same way. A kind of numbness came over me, and I was unable to sleep for weeks on end, until at last I got so worn down that the doctor had to be called in. And later turning my back on Orv and all my Dayton friends—oh yes, I know what it's like to feel alone and bereft!

It comforted me to know that young Henry would be spending the summer at home with his father. They have always been the best of friends. But Henry was planning to go abroad in the fall for a year of postgraduate study, and I dreaded it so for Harry. He would need companionship more than ever when his only child was gone. I bucked myself up with the thought that writing an account of his travels in Europe on his sabbatical would keep him from brooding on his troubles. I told him that we sorely need a book or two, now and then, that has some sensible, unaffected ideas. That cheap bunch of New York “intellectuals” that I fear Harry admires somewhat are so far beneath what he has always been that there is no comparison to be made.

I understood Harry's saying that he wouldn't have cared so much, for himself, to go on living after Isabel died. When Will was taken from us, I had the same feeling of emptiness—the world seemed to have lost its meaning. Yet life does go on, willy-nilly, and I did my best to convince Harry that the future was far from bleak, for both him
and
me. I told him that we had a good many years before us, years that were sure to be filled with satisfaction and happiness. I was right about
that
, at least, however cloudy
my crystal ball may have been about other things. We have made each other very happy indeed. I'm not altogether pessimistic, if I do growl and fuss a good deal. When all is said and done, I have found a few people who make living well worth my while!

Was Stef one of those people? I used to think so, but now—now I'm not so sure. My mind is in an uproar. Some of the best memories of my life are bound up in my friendship with Stef. There was a time when I wanted to write to him every single day. I longed to know where he was and what he was doing when we were apart. Then, practically overnight, our friendship simply fizzled out. After that agonizing visit when Orv and I let him know how we felt about his disgraceful conduct in the Wrangel Island affair, his letters pretty much stopped coming. About every three months I would receive a line or two saying that he was very busy—that was all. I didn't blame Stef. Liking goes by favor. But it felt funny to be discussing solemnly whether he and I were friends any longer. If not friends, just what were we, I'd like to know?

Try as I might, I couldn't drum Stef out of my head. I kept hoping I'd find a letter in the mail when I got home from a trip. I wondered if he ever missed me, just the least little bit. Then I'd pinch myself and say, “It's all right if he doesn't. I don't know why he should miss me nor why I should wish he would. Everything is all right just as it is.” Stef was a dear comfort to me when Reuch died and Orv was having such a bad time with sciatica. I never can forget the lovely things that existed between us. I wished with all my heart that I could do something worthwhile for him—not to make demands or be “forward,” as he put it, but just to let him know that I thought of him with sympathy and affection, and that I would lighten his sad times and increase his happiness if I could.

But the case was hopeless—I see that now. The longer I thought about Stef and how little I could actually do for him, the clearer it became that he wasn't to blame for my restlessness. The real reason I was so unsettled was that I had
nothing to do
. I couldn't comfort Harry or Stef. I couldn't force the Smithsonian to do the right thing. I couldn't even get Orv to write that blasted book! No one ought to be without some useful occupation, yet women and girls nearly always are. There is no incentive for us to go out and find something meaningful to do. On the contrary, we are actually
blamed
if we take up any regular, honest-to-goodness work outside the home—as if it meant taking a job away from someone who needed it more. No wonder so many women don't do anything but give orders to servants and dress and fill up their time with nothing!

It isn't that I am bored—far from it. I have never been bored in all my life, except for a few hours at a stretch. Why, then, do I find myself with the same old weariness every afternoon? It has always been my besetting weakness, this getting so tired, ever since college. It often comes over me that I could hardly earn my own living anymore—if it should ever be necessary, I mean. I have so little endurance, so little strength, so little sustained energy. I don't know what makes me so mortally exhausted all the time. Maybe it's just pure laziness. My honest opinion is that I would be less tired if I had some good, hard work to do!

In the first few months after Isabel died, it was only my writing that kept me going from one day to the next. Never have I been
so grateful for deadlines; without them, even the best of us might wake up one morning and find that he has nothing left to say. The articles I mailed to the
Star
from Europe were a lifeline for me. My colleagues reported that they went over well with readers, and Katharine even encouraged me to put them between hard covers. After reading the first draft of my manuscript, however, she changed her tune. Her Criticalness declared that my “Notes from a Kansas City Traveler” were all very well for a newspaper audience, but when it came to writing a book, she was sure I could “do better.” Well, what did I expect? I asked for her opinion, and she has never been shy about speaking her mind.

In any case, I had other things on my plate after my sabbatical. Henry had decided to see the world for himself and spend a year at the University of Toulouse. Shortly after he set sail, in the fall of 1924, my mother's health fell into decline. I held off going to Oberlin as long as I dared, for fear of alarming her, and by the time I arrived she was so weak that she could talk only with considerable effort. One day, to break the routine of reading aloud to her, I told her about one of the widows back home who had been pursuing me. Her son, it seemed, had suddenly become one of the most eligible bachelors in Kansas City. As my sister was putting her to bed that evening, Mother burst out indignantly, “To think of those widows going after Harry. They deserve to have their necks wrung, every one of them. I guess they will learn my son is capable of selecting a wife for himself when he wants one!”

Later Mary told me that when she broached the idea of my marrying Katharine, Mother dismissed it out of hand. “She will never leave her brother,” she declared. For a long time I too took it for granted that no matter how much Katharine cared for me,
in the end she would be unable to tear herself away from Orville. It was the combination of Mother's death and Henry's absence that brought home how much Katharine's companionship had come to mean to me. I resolved to unburden myself to her on the subject the first chance I got. But before a suitable opportunity presented itself, another springtime was upon us, Henry was coming home from France to take a job on the
Wichita Beacon
, and the Smithsonian controversy was bursting back into bloom like a hardy perennial.

In April 1925 the
New York Times
belatedly caught wind of Orville's plans to send the flyer to London. He promptly put out a statement confirming the report, without volunteering further details. Off the record, he told me that the loan would probably be permanent, but he preferred to say nothing to the press. Then, to my surprise, Orville went on the offensive. He publicly challenged the accuracy of the Smithsonian's label describing the Langley aerodrome as the first machine in history “capable of sustained free flight.” This salvo produced the desired effect of ruffling the feathers of officials in Washington. The Smithsonian's secretary, Dr. Walcott, duly issued a statement of his own in which he reviewed the Hammondsport trials of 1914 and concluded that the label was fundamentally correct.

Katharine accused me of “taking to the woods” just as the story was breaking, since I had gone to Quebec to meet Henry's ship. On my return I instructed the
Star
's Sunday department to get up a general piece on the controversy. Meanwhile, I turned out another in a long series of editorials taking the Smithsonian to task. Not that I was under the illusion that it would do any good. I had told Katharine more than once, at the risk of making myself a terrible
nuisance, that the only way to settle the matter once and for all was for Orville to publish his monograph. She protested that her brother was so worn out nervously and so lacking in vitality that she didn't think he could do it, and that it distressed her to have it urged. Much as I hated to be disagreeable, I insisted that it was a vital matter and really must be done.

Orville's resistance was nothing short of heroic. No force on earth could shake him loose. Each time after issuing a statement to the press, he would duck down out of sight, grumbling that the row about the machine going out of the country had so interfered with his work that there was no telling when it would be ready for shipment. I was just about ready to throw in the towel when, one day at the beginning of June, a large, flat package arrived in the mail from Dayton. Inside was a copy of the famous photo of the first flight at Kitty Hawk, inscribed to me by Orville. I knew what that meant. It was his way of saying that I was no longer just a friend of Katharine's but a trusted ally, almost one of the family. Nothing could have pleased me more.

Orville's magnanimous gesture demanded a response. But what did I, a humble denizen of Grub Street, have to offer a man of his stature? The problem occupied me for some time. At length I realized that the solution was literally staring me in the face. I recalled the portraits of Stef and other friends that I had seen on the Wrights' bookshelves in Dayton. I would send them a photograph of myself to add to their collection. Katharine wouldn't consider it immodest of me, I felt sure, and if Orville happened to notice, he wouldn't give the gift a second thought. To tell the truth, I was warming to the idea of being something more than a bird of passage at Hawthorn Hill.