Her Last Flight(72)
Irene unbuckled the safety strap and reached for her kit bag. “Thanks for the lift,” she said.
“Any time. Sorry about the race.”
“Those are the breaks. At least the ship’s not a write-off.”
“She’ll take some fixing, though.”
Irene ran a brush through her curls and dug out a tube of lipstick. “She will.”
The autumn sun was already dipping below the hills to the west. Landon opened the hatch and a couple of flashbulbs went off, a couple of voices called out in greeting. George bounded up the stairs first, tore off his hat, greeted her with an embrace and a kiss, prompting a few more flashbulbs and a photograph that would appear in the Burbank Daily Review the next morning, page four, and the Los Angeles Times, page eleven. He drew back and held her by the shoulders. His expression was one of fatigue and relief, and for a moment the exhausted Irene just absorbed the familiar air of him, hair oil and shaving soap and a distant note of cigars.
“Welcome home, darling,” said George. “How’s the arm?”
“The arm’s just fine. I thought I said no press.”
“Just a few fellows. Hardy and Patrick from the Daily Review, Rogers from the Times. Ten minutes, tops.” He kissed her forehead. “Then dinner. You must be starving.”
“More tired than hungry, actually,” said Irene, but George was already replacing his hat, lifting her kit bag, taking her hand. They descended the steps together in a routine George had choreographed so long ago, Irene didn’t have to think. The newsmen gathered around at the foot of the steps and began their questions in the usual way, to which Irene answered in the usual way.
“How’s the arm, Miss Foster?”
“It’s all right.” (Lifting her left arm.) “It’ll be in a sling for a few more days, but there’s no fracture. Nothing to worry about.”
“You must be awfully disappointed, Miss Foster. Would you care to comment on the crash in Fort Worth?”
“I wouldn’t call it a crash, really. We just had a hard landing, that’s all. When a squall moves in just as you’re approaching the airfield, you have to prepare for the worst.”
“With all due respect, Miss Foster, should you have attempted the landing at all, with weather bearing down?”
“It’s a race, Mr. Rogers. Flying the Coast-to-Coast Derby’s a different matter from making an ordinary journey from city to city, carrying passengers. If you want to win, you have to take a chance or two. You can’t let a little weather get in your way.”
“But surely it’s not worth risking your life?”
“Any kind of competitive flying carries an element of risk. That’s why we fly these races, to push the airplanes and the pilots to their utmost, to push back the frontiers of what’s possible, so that the common man can get on an airplane in full confidence that the machine and the captain will get him to his destination in safety and comfort.”
As she finished this speech, George put his hand to the small of her back and rubbed his thumb against her spine. He did this to convey approval to her during the countless times they’d stood like this over the years, at the bottom of the airplane steps, while Irene spoke to the press and George gazed at her as if she were some kind of goddess come to earth. They used to rehearse at home. George would ask questions and Irene would answer them, and George would tell her how she ought to have answered them, frankly and openly while still communicating some particular message, some theme to which she and George had agreed. Now it was second nature. Irene knew exactly what she was supposed to do. Say what you would about George—and there were plenty of mutterings by the fall of 1936, few of which ever reached Irene’s ears—he had a natural gift for publicity. A genius, really. Without George Morrow, there would have been no Irene Foster, at least as we know her today.
Anyway, she appreciated the gesture. It had been a long flight from Fort Worth, and her arm hurt, and she was tired and hungry, and now she had to stand up straight in the midst of this humiliating defeat and answer impertinent questions in a dignified voice, when all she really wanted was to berate herself for her mistake; to demand whether these smug, paunchy reporters thought they thought they could fly an airplane any better; to crawl under the blankets of a soft, warm bed and hide from the world. At a time like this, a hand at the small of your back, rubbing your aching spine, is worth more than treasure.
After exactly ten minutes of questions, George raised his palm. “All right, boys. That’s enough. My wife’s going to need some dinner and a good bed, and it’s my job to see that she gets them.”
When they reached the car, Irene turned to George. “Can’t you drive this time? I’m just beat, I really am.”
George dropped her kit bag in the narrow back seat. “You can do it, darling. It’s just a few miles.”
“George, please.”
“But you love to drive.” He kissed her cheek and opened the driver’s door. “Makes a great photograph, remember? That’s how we want people to think of you. Driving off the airfield in your own roadster.”
Of course, he was right. He didn’t say it, but Irene knew the photos were everywhere, the Fort Worth crackup, Irene’s airplane tilted to one side in a grassy ditch, landing gear crushed, rain pouring down, Irene’s head bowed and her face crumpled with disappointment. They needed an image to counterpose defeat with triumph. They needed Irene thundering off the airfield behind the wheel of her custom Hudson roadster, husband at her side. She climbed in. The key was already stuck in the ignition switch. She pushed down the clutch and turned the key, and the engine growled awake, and Irene wanted to bawl out her frustration like a baby. But she didn’t. She put the car in gear and pushed down the gas pedal and released the clutch, and she and George roared down the driveway against the setting sun, while the photographers clicked their shutters and captured the moment for history.