Victor would have been content with the sacrifice of his life, I thought, which made it even more difficult not to sob at the sight of his parents, thrust into the public spotlight. Poor Jack and Elizabeth—both of them putting on a brave face. I couldn’t have done so with half as much grace, and my husband seemed capable of uttering the necessary platitudes only if he drank half a bottle of brandy before every memorial service.
We needed to get away. We decided on a trip to Bar Harbor, but before we left, Willie insisted on dressing for a formal dinner in the hotel, and asked me to bring the boys, wearing their finest. Once seated, he downed his liquor in one gulp. “You see this dining room, boys? This was your mother’s creation. She put her beautiful mark on this place.”
I smiled at this long-overdue recognition, even if it told me he was half-sauced. Then Willie flagged the waiter and called for champagne.
“Are we celebrating something?” I knew all too well that pain and joy can coexist side by side, but we were dining in public at a time our family was in mourning, and the public was both judgmental and unforgiving.
With a glint in his eye, Willie said, “I’ve bought out Freddy Vanderbilt’s interest in the hotel—his widow has no use for it. We own this place now, boys, and your mother and I hope to pass it down to you one day.”
Your mother and I. Did I imagine that he’d stressed the words? He hadn’t consulted me, but I’d have told him to buy it. Now he’d both surprised and delighted me, all while emphasizing to our children that we were still a family. That made it easier to say, “How wonderful!”
It also made it easier not to mind that my husband drank most of the bottle of champagne, and then called for several rounds of daiquiris—a drink he had discovered in Cuba and popularized in New York—which meant that he needed help from the staff in getting back to his room.
It even made it easier for me not to mind his bullheaded insistence on driving to Bar Harbor instead of taking the train. He was eager to prove to the boys that, with some minor mechanical modifications, he could work an automobile with his remaining leg. Halfway into the drive, while the boys boasted about being old enough to attend Saint Paul’s boarding school, like Astor and Vanderbilt scions, Willie cheerfully announced, “And when you boys are away at school, I’m going to learn how to fly an aeroplane.”
I stewed on this revelation for hours on the harrowing drive, practicing a diplomatic way of dissuading him. Unfortunately, the moment that our bags were unpacked, my emotions got the better of me. Facing the windows to watch the boys playing on the beach, I said, “You must promise me you’ve no intention of flying in the war.”
“Must I?” Having fallen back into old marital habits, he came up behind me and grazed my bared shoulder with a kiss. “As I recall, you’ve always liked a man in uniform.”
I enjoyed our renewed intimacy. I also knew that it was, for both of us, about more than enjoyment. For Willie, it was—like his idea to fly aeroplanes—a way of reclaiming his manhood, so I tried to be gentle. “You’re now past the age that even the French would wish any man to volunteer.”
“That’s the beauty of aeroplanes,” Willie murmured against my hair. “Flying isn’t just a young man’s game.”
Flying in war must be. War pilots like Victor needed the physical agility to leap into a plane at a moment’s notice, to say nothing of what it took to control the machine in the air. But Willie took my silence for agreement, adding, “I’m still the sharpest shooter on either side of the Atlantic.”
I closed my eyes at this boast, and inhaled. I’d always loved the scent of expensive liquor on a man’s breath, but Willie had been drinking so heavily, it now seemed to emanate from his pores. “Well, you’ll have to sober up if you mean to hit a target. You’ve been drunk every day since you returned from France.”
He didn’t deny it. “Drinking is better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
He pressed his forehead to the back of my head. I wanted to turn and look him in the eye, but he might not speak if I did. “You haven’t any idea about the drugs the doctors gave me for the pain. I had to get off them somehow.”
I didn’t have any idea, and I hadn’t asked. I’d assumed that after the surgery, all he had to do was get stronger. Aghast, I asked, “You still have pain?”
More silence. Oh, I should’ve known better than to expect him to admit it. He’d have to be forced to it. So I turned and took his face in my hands. “I don’t understand, darling. Where does it hurt if not—”