Her Last Flight(32)

Which was why, when Sam cracked open one eye and lifted up one side of his mouth and asked Irene why she hadn’t joined him in the hangar last night, she just turned away to inspect the line of rivets along the wing.

“Figure we spend enough time together already, Sam Mallory,” she said.



At eleven o’clock on the morning of the thirtieth of July, 1928, the doors of Hangar C at Rofrano’s Airfield in Burbank, California, drew open and the Centauri rolled out like “a giant silver torpedo,” as the Orange County Register phrased it. The metal sides flashed in the sun. The photographers swarmed her, bulbs popping. Mr. Rofrano appeared out of nowhere in a pale suit and a Panama hat and spoke to the reporters. Irene watched all this from the window of the cafeteria, where she was sharing a final, anonymous cup of coffee with her father. The air was hot and filled with grease, with the clatter from the kitchen, but Irene didn’t mind. To her it smelled like home.

“That’s your ship, is it?” Mr. Foster whistled. “Mighty fine bird.”

“You see that man in the Panama hat? That’s Mr. Rofrano. He’s the one who designed her.”

“The moneybags?”

“No. Mr. George Morrow, the publisher, he put up the money for the airplane and the flight expenses.”

“Say, where is he? I’d like to shake his hand.”

“You can’t,” said Irene. “He’s on a steamship. On his way to Australia to meet us.”

“You must be setting off soon, then.”

“As soon as we can.”

“That’s swell. You be sure to tell me the big day. See you off in style.” Mr. Foster swirled the last of the coffee in his cup. He fiddled the cigarette between his fingers. The sun was nearly overhead, and the light came like dust through the windows, so he didn’t look as haggard as he had that morning. Irene remembered when he was the handsomest man she had ever known, when he filled any room with magic. Now his hair was gray and thinning and his skin had begun to sag. He talked too loud. He made grand, clumsy gestures as he spoke. At some point, he’d developed this habit of sticking complicated words into conversation, so that strangers would understand he wasn’t just any old drunk, he was a smart drunk. He was so conscious of his own dilapidation, so ashamed of himself, and until this moment Irene hadn’t even realized. She was too busy being ashamed of him herself. She laid her hand on his arm, and he looked at her in surprise. Even as a child, Irene had never just touched a person for no reason.

Irene hadn’t finished her coffee, but she set the cup in the saucer and drew her other hand away from her father’s arm. “I’d better be off, I guess, before they send a posse out for me.” She leaned in and kissed her father’s cheek. “I’ll see you around, Dad. Don’t go poking your nose into anything, now.”

Mr. Foster, a little dumbfounded, put his hand to his cheek and sank back in his chair. “All right, then. You have yourself a time out there, pumpkin.”



Sophie Rofrano met her just outside the cafeteria door. “Irene! There you are. I’ve been looking all over.”

“Is something the matter?” Irene asked.

“Not matter, exactly. I just wanted to warn you in time.”

“Warn me? About what?”

“Bertha’s here.”

“Bertha? Who’s Bertha?”

Sophie hissed in her ear. “Sam’s wife.”

“Oh, right. Well, she’s got a right to come, I guess. He’s her husband.”

Sophie stopped and turned Irene to face her. “Now, listen to me. I haven’t said anything because I didn’t think it was my place. It’s your affair, not mine.”

“Affair? That’s a funny word to use.”

“My dear,” said Sophie, full of sympathy, “anyone can see how it is, between the two of you.”

“We’re good friends, that’s all. We’ve got a rapport, like friends do.”

Sophie still held Irene’s upper arms, just below the shoulders. She stared into Irene’s eyes for a moment or two, frowning, until Irene shrugged and the hands fell away and Sophie crossed her arms over her chest. “All right. Whatever you say. I’m sure you’re just as pure as Ivory soap, the two of you. But you need to know a little something about Bertha Mallory, Irene.”

“What’s that?”

Sophie tilted her head in the direction of the Centauri, where the crowd of reporters and photographers milled about under the blazing sun. “What she says to those fellows, those newspapers? What she says to you or me or anybody?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t believe a word of it, that’s all.”



When they reached the airplane, Irene spotted Bertha Mallory. You couldn’t miss her, really. She stood right next to Sam, as light and feminine as a fairy, resting her arm through the crook of his elbow. She wore a white dress that swished a few inches below her knees, white shoes and stockings, a straw cloche hat with a navy blue grosgrain ribbon around the crown, and no cosmetics at all except for a swipe of cherry lipstick. Though she wasn’t tall, she held herself straight, as if still balancing that schoolgirl book on her head. The cloche hat cradled her face just so. Her eyes were dark and lovely, especially as they turned toward her husband and glowed with pride, while the little girl held tight to her other hand.