I Was Amelia Earhart (Vintage Contemporaries) Read Online Free

tore into the trees. We smashed the undercarriage and the propeller. I remember crawling out of the mess, my coveralls torn and my brain intoxicated with the heady, mentholated smell of eucalyptus. By the time Neta turned around to look for me, I had fished out my silver compact and was powdering my nose.
    When she asked me as a joke if I was meeting someone there, I answered her with the charming, deadpan etiquette for which I would become famous.
    I might as well look fresh when the reporters get here, I said.
    I tilt the compact to view myself from the side: a printed dress falling in silky folds, pale stockings the color of buttermilk, low-heeled lace-up calfskin shoes pointing slightly inward.
    I close the compact and turn toward the mirror. I stare at my face for a while. I have the same expression I’ve always had, the small nose, the wide eyes, the grin. But I notice a pucker of worry over my brow, a network of lines around my eyes. Behind me in the mirror I glimpse the chair and the ashtray. I remember a department store in Atchison, Kansas, where my grandmother used to shop. A brightly floral ladies’ lounge on the top floor of the building, with a picture window overlooking the street. Marble sinks and a blue chaise longue upholstered in damask silk. A heavy smell of perfume and disinfectant. I remember winter afternoons, shopping for Christmas clothes, escaping to the ladies’ room and staring out the window. The purple sky lowering its velvety curtain. My face afloat in the glass. Eerie and disembodied, it took shape in the darkness with a languid speed, decorated by the lights of the windows across the street, and beyond that …
    Miss Earhart, is everything all right in there?
    Oh, yes. I’m fine. Thank you.
    Your husband asked me to remind you that he’s waiting outside.
    I’ll be right there.
     … the early stars.
    When she emerges from behind a swinging glass door, the shadows of the station’s letters fly briefly like hidden feelings across her face.
    •
    The sun is low and the plane is hot. Its wings cast gigantic shadows. Later, a reporter arrives to talk with her. Owen, he’s an old friend by now, he’s covered her flights for so long. Sometimes she thinks he’s her only friend. The two of them walk on the runway for a while, their long shadows circling as they change direction, the light in their hair reddish and gold. She is wearing white coveralls, splattered with oil. He’s wearing a suit and a hat.
    When she squints into the distance, he stares at her. Anyone can see that he’s in love.
    How does that thing feel? He points to her mouth.
    Awful, she says. It’s giving me a headache.
    I think a good radio and a sober navigator would take care of the headaches.
    Owen, you think too much. Have you seen Noonan?
    No, not yet. I hear he smashed up his car again, with what’s-her-name in it, the second wife.
    It’s terrible but sort of funny, isn’t it?
    I don’t think so. Why are you taking him?
    She leans down and picks a bottle cap off the ground. G.P. insists, she says.
    You want to go alone.
    She flicks the cap into the weeds. I can’t always do what I want.
    He loosens his tie and takes it off. He rolls it up and stuffs it in his pocket.
    Fred’s a good navigator, she says.
    He’s a drunk.
    She nods.
    So why the charity?
    Old age, I suppose.
    Old what?
    Age. I have a morbid obsession with it.
    I guess even Amelia Earhart has to be afraid of something.
    Well, she says. Don’t print it.
    A warm wind picks up and blows his hat off. They both run after it in the dusty light.
    Amelia?
    Yes.
    Nothing.
    All right. I’ll ask you something then.
    Anything.
    You have to be honest.
    He crosses his heart.
    What do you think are my chances?
    Your chances of finding Howland Island?
    He stops. He puts his hands in his pockets. It’s a small island, he says.
    Smaller than the Cleveland airport.
    It’s in the middle of the ocean.
    I know.
    He takes a moment.
    Fifty-fifty, he says. Being