Her Last Flight(33)
“. . . simply couldn’t be any more proud of him,” Mrs. Mallory was saying. “Flying’s always been his life. We’re just a poor second, Pixie and me.”
“Now, that’s not true, darling,” said Sam.
“Yes, it is. And it’s perfectly fine! When you’re married to a genius, gentlemen, you have to understand that his work must come first. You have a duty to the world to give his ambition full rein, to take care of hearth and home and let him do all those great things the Almighty means him to do.”
Then Mrs. Mallory squeezed her husband’s arm and smiled at him worshipfully, while he offered a small, tight grin to the cameras. Irene stuck her hands in the pockets of her trousers. She had changed into her flying costume, similar to Sam’s, which was military in style, a khaki tunic and a Sam Browne belt over cavalry-style breeches, long golf socks, shiny leather shoes. Her hair was scraped back in a snug bun at the nape of her neck. She and Sophie stood at the fringe of the crowd, arm in arm.
“All right, all right,” said Sam. “You’ve got your snaps. We’ve got a flight to prepare for. Has anyone seen Miss Foster?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Mallory. “Miss Foster. Where is she? I’m so eager to meet her.”
“She’s right here!” Sophie called.
The reaction was like a frenzy. The details of Miss Foster’s identity had been kept so carefully quiet until now, she was like the lost city of Eldorado. Nobody in the press had ever spoken to her or even seen her. A few of the older, more cynical hands in the newsroom had figured she didn’t even exist, that she’d been created for publicity purposes, or was actually a man after all. So you can imagine the fuss when Irene waved her hand and said Good morning, gentlemen! It went something like this, except the questions came all at once:
Miss Foster! Miss Foster!
Any thoughts on the upcoming flight, Miss Foster?
Is it true you’re only just meeting Mrs. Mallory today, Miss Foster?
All right if we take your photograph, Miss Foster?
“Why, yes,” she said. “I don’t see why not.”
A dozen flashbulbs exploded around her. She looked right between them all and found Sam’s bemused face and smiled at him, so that all those photos that appeared that very day in the afternoon and evening editions showed a cheerful, happy face framed by a leather aviator’s cap, far more pretty than anybody expected. Underneath these photos, Miss Foster was quoted variously about how excited she was to travel across the ocean, how impressed she was with Mr. Mallory’s skill and tenacity as a pilot, how eager she was to prove herself, how proud to represent the ambitions and capability of women everywhere. Just about everybody reading a newspaper that evening or the next morning thought that Sam Mallory was either the luckiest man alive or else the unluckiest, depending on his or her opinion of the sanctity of marriage.
When Irene was done answering the questions of the reporters, Irene made her way to Sam Mallory and his wife. Mrs. Mallory smelled of some delicate, floral perfume that Irene didn’t recognize. Sam said, “Irene, I’d like to present to you my wife, Bertha. She wanted to join us here at the airfield today to see what the fuss is all about.”
This introduction was clearly meant for the reporters clustered about, taking down every word. Irene took Mrs. Mallory’s hand and said, “I’m so pleased to meet you at last, Mrs. Mallory. You must be awfully proud of Sam.”
“I am.” Mrs. Mallory squeezed Irene’s hand, just tight enough. She stared into the space between Irene’s eyes. “My goodness, aren’t you the prettiest thing! Sam, isn’t she just lovely?”
The reporters laughed. Sam said gallantly, “Not only lovely, but a fine pilot and navigator. Miss Foster has the coolest nerves you’ve ever met.”
“I can see that.” Mrs. Mallory released Irene’s hand. “Of course, I have every faith she won’t need them, not with Sam Mallory at the controls.”
“We’ll be flying eight thousand miles across the open ocean next week,” said Irene. “I naturally expect every hazard to come our way. But I am confident we will overcome the difficulties of such a challenging voyage and prove to the world what modern aviation is capable of.”
The reporters nodded and scribbled in their notebooks.
“You can see why I feel so fortunate to have Miss Foster as my flying mate,” said Sam. “Having her aboard is no publicity stunt, gentlemen. You won’t find a better partner for a trip like this one, man or woman. What she lacks in experience, she makes up for in courage, natural skill, and the instincts of a born pilot.”
Mrs. Mallory wasn’t looking at Irene any longer; she gazed serenely across the assembled reporters and took up her daughter’s hand again. She spoke as if reciting from a prepared script, which probably she was: “I am grateful that my husband has secured the assistance of such a single-minded professional for his endeavor. I know Miss Foster understands how much Pixie and I depend on her skill and endurance. Our very hearts and lives are at stake.”
“Believe me,” said Irene, “so are mine.”
More laughter.
“All right, all right,” said Sam. “I think it’s about time we gave you gentlemen the dope on what this bird can do. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but our mechanics have been busy fueling the plane while we’ve been shooting the breeze out here. Our equipment’s aboard, ready to go. Miss Foster? Do feel like heading up in the air and taking a turn above Los Angeles?”