wife.
“And,” I said, “G. P. wasn’t about to spring for a nice room for me if he didn’t have to.”
Her half-smile made a deep, wry dimple. “I would say that’s an insightful reading of my husband’s character.”
The next day I watched from the sidelines as Amelia followed Mantz’s lead, working all morning in the little red Link trainer. She wore a red-and-green plaid shirt with a tan bandanna and chinos and all she lacked to be a cowgirl in a Gene Autry picture was the right hat. Mantz, when he wasn’t flying, maintained an image that was part executive and the rest dashing playboy; he wore a nubby brown sportcoat with a light blue shirt and blue striped tie, his pants navy gabardines.
Amy was a dutiful pupil, for the most part, though at lunch, in the Sky Room again, she showed impatience when he told her about a gadget that next-door neighbor Lockheed was going to install in the Vega.
“It’s called a Cambridge analyzer,” he said. “You use it to know how to reset your mixture control, and get maximum miles per gallon.”
“Oh for Pete sakes, Paul,” she said, gnawing on a carrot stick like Bugs Bunny, “you take all the fun out of flying.”
“There’s nothing fun about running out of fuel over the goddamn Gulf of Mexico.”
“You’re still stewing about that?”
Mantz’s concern for her ran deep; but I still couldn’t read whether it was a lover’s caring or that of a teacher or friend.
“It’s stupid,” Mantz spouted, “cutting across a body of water that size, when you don’t have to. Jesus, angel, it’s seven hundred miles, half an Atlantic!”
“I flew a whole Atlantic, before…. Look who’s here!”
She grinned the gap-toothed grin and waved enthusiastically.
“Toni!” Amy called. “Over here!”
I turned to see, checking in with the hostess at the register, a slightly chunky but still nicely put-together woman, medium height, perhaps thirty, decked out in a goggled tan flying helmet, white blouse with a red and yellow polka-dot knotted scarf and brown jodhpurs; her features reminded me of a slightly less attractive Claudette Colbert. It struck me she didn’t need the helmet indoors, but maybe she wanted to make sure people knew she was a flier.
In which case, you’d think the woman would relish public attention from the most famous female pilot on the planet. But the response to Amy’s zealous hello was tepid; the round, makeup-less face twitched a polite smile. Then the woman took a seat alone, near one of the birdcages by the far wall.
Amy frowned. “I don’t understand…. Toni’s a friend. I haven’t seen or talked to her in some time, but—”
“Maybe she’s holding a grudge,” Mantz offered.
“Whatever for?”
“Didn’t you turn her down when she wanted you to partner up for the refueling-in-flight endurance record?”
“Well, yes, but I just couldn’t do it…G. P. had me so heavily booked with lectures…. Anyway, she got Elinor Smith to go with her, and they set the darn record.”
“Sure. And didn’t get near the publicity if Amelia Earhart had been along.”
Amy’s mouth tightened and she rose. “I better go talk to her….”
She went over to the woman’s table and began speaking very earnestly, a hand to her breast, standing before cool, seated audience. The woman had removed her helmet to reveal a boyish black-haired bob with pointed sideburns.
“A lot of jealousy between the girls who fly,” Mantz commented.
“Who is that?”
“Toni Lake. Ever hear of her?”
“No.”
“Well, she’s pulled off as many aviation feats as our girl Amelia, a real slew of altitude and endurance records in fact, and yet you’ve never heard of her. And that’s why she’s so royally pissed off, I’d guess.”
But something interesting was happening over at that side table. Toni Lake was standing and the two women were suddenly hugging, grinning, patting each other on the back. Amy had won her over.
Hand in hand, the two
“And,” I said, “G. P. wasn’t about to spring for a nice room for me if he didn’t have to.”
Her half-smile made a deep, wry dimple. “I would say that’s an insightful reading of my husband’s character.”
The next day I watched from the sidelines as Amelia followed Mantz’s lead, working all morning in the little red Link trainer. She wore a red-and-green plaid shirt with a tan bandanna and chinos and all she lacked to be a cowgirl in a Gene Autry picture was the right hat. Mantz, when he wasn’t flying, maintained an image that was part executive and the rest dashing playboy; he wore a nubby brown sportcoat with a light blue shirt and blue striped tie, his pants navy gabardines.
Amy was a dutiful pupil, for the most part, though at lunch, in the Sky Room again, she showed impatience when he told her about a gadget that next-door neighbor Lockheed was going to install in the Vega.
“It’s called a Cambridge analyzer,” he said. “You use it to know how to reset your mixture control, and get maximum miles per gallon.”
“Oh for Pete sakes, Paul,” she said, gnawing on a carrot stick like Bugs Bunny, “you take all the fun out of flying.”
“There’s nothing fun about running out of fuel over the goddamn Gulf of Mexico.”
“You’re still stewing about that?”
Mantz’s concern for her ran deep; but I still couldn’t read whether it was a lover’s caring or that of a teacher or friend.
“It’s stupid,” Mantz spouted, “cutting across a body of water that size, when you don’t have to. Jesus, angel, it’s seven hundred miles, half an Atlantic!”
“I flew a whole Atlantic, before…. Look who’s here!”
She grinned the gap-toothed grin and waved enthusiastically.
“Toni!” Amy called. “Over here!”
I turned to see, checking in with the hostess at the register, a slightly chunky but still nicely put-together woman, medium height, perhaps thirty, decked out in a goggled tan flying helmet, white blouse with a red and yellow polka-dot knotted scarf and brown jodhpurs; her features reminded me of a slightly less attractive Claudette Colbert. It struck me she didn’t need the helmet indoors, but maybe she wanted to make sure people knew she was a flier.
In which case, you’d think the woman would relish public attention from the most famous female pilot on the planet. But the response to Amy’s zealous hello was tepid; the round, makeup-less face twitched a polite smile. Then the woman took a seat alone, near one of the birdcages by the far wall.
Amy frowned. “I don’t understand…. Toni’s a friend. I haven’t seen or talked to her in some time, but—”
“Maybe she’s holding a grudge,” Mantz offered.
“Whatever for?”
“Didn’t you turn her down when she wanted you to partner up for the refueling-in-flight endurance record?”
“Well, yes, but I just couldn’t do it…G. P. had me so heavily booked with lectures…. Anyway, she got Elinor Smith to go with her, and they set the darn record.”
“Sure. And didn’t get near the publicity if Amelia Earhart had been along.”
Amy’s mouth tightened and she rose. “I better go talk to her….”
She went over to the woman’s table and began speaking very earnestly, a hand to her breast, standing before cool, seated audience. The woman had removed her helmet to reveal a boyish black-haired bob with pointed sideburns.
“A lot of jealousy between the girls who fly,” Mantz commented.
“Who is that?”
“Toni Lake. Ever hear of her?”
“No.”
“Well, she’s pulled off as many aviation feats as our girl Amelia, a real slew of altitude and endurance records in fact, and yet you’ve never heard of her. And that’s why she’s so royally pissed off, I’d guess.”
But something interesting was happening over at that side table. Toni Lake was standing and the two women were suddenly hugging, grinning, patting each other on the back. Amy had won her over.
Hand in hand, the two
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