“Oh, thank you,” Alice cried in appreciation. She hugged Mother and looked like she might stand to give Father a hug, but he crossed his arms and made it plain that he wouldn’t allow her to touch him.
“You’re very welcome, dear,” Mother said. “Now, let’s see about that tea, and then we’ll show you to your room.”
Alice wiped her cheeks as Mother rose from the sofa and helped her to her feet. She kept her arm around Alice’s shoulders as they walked past me.
“Father,” I said, taking a step forward.
“Judge not, lest ye be judged,” Father said as he, too, rose from his seat. “We’ll find the man responsible for this situation and force him to make it right.”
As he walked out of the parlor to return to his study, one question kept replaying in my head.
Why hadn’t Alice told my parents that Andrew was responsible for her pregnancy?
That evening, I sat in the parlor with my parents listening to the nightly news on the radio. Alice had gone to bed right after supper, claiming to have a headache. Until then, I had been watching her closely, expecting her to tell my parents the truth, but shekept the information to herself. I wanted to tell her that I knew her secret, but she hadn’t given me the opportunity. She stuck close to Mother all day.
The soft glow from the floor lamps above Father’s and Mother’s heads made the room feel safe, cocooned. Closed off from the outside world, except for the radio against the wall. I had been longing for this moment for months—but with Alice upstairs, I couldn’t relax or enjoy being home.
Father had his Bible open on his lap but was staring at the floor as he listened to the news. Mother had her knitting needles in hand, and they were clacking a steady rhythm as she, too, listened.
I had been trying to readGulliver’s Travels, but I was too restless, wondering when it would be appropriate for me to go upstairs and confront Alice. Even my favorite book couldn’t distract me from her presence.
“In other news,” the broadcaster said on the radio, “today the Guggenheim Fund for the Promotion of Aeronautics announced that Charles A. Lindbergh will undertake a Goodwill Tour of the United States. The tour will commence on July 20th in New York where Lindbergh left on his historic trans-Atlantic flight in May.”
Father sat upright, his Bible nearly falling out of his lap. He’d been trying to contact Lindbergh since we’d met him in Washington, DC, but hadn’t heard back from the aviator.
“Over the course of ninety-five days,” the broadcaster continued, “Lindbergh will visit eighty-two cities and twenty-three state capitals. At each stop, he will give a brief speech and participate in a parade. One of his stops will hold special significance when he visits his hometown in Little Falls, Minnesota. It’s said that the town of just five thousand people will host the greatest celebration in its history, with their hometown hero as the guest of honor.”
The broadcaster continued with the next news story, but Father turned down the radio and looked at Mother. “If Lindbergh is going to Little Falls, he could easily stop here first.”
“They’ll probably want him to go to Saint Paul,” Mother saidwith a scathing look—something she only reserved for Minneapolis’s twin city and greatest rival.
“But that’s why we must attract him to Minneapolis.” I could see the wheels of Father’s mind working already. “I will call the mayor tomorrow, and we will host an emergency meeting of the community leaders. We’ll make an offer to the Guggenheim Fund that they can’t refuse.”
Mother set down her knitting needles. “Do you think it will work?”
His smile was wide as he said, “It’s almost too good to be true, Marian. The people will come to see the flier, and then we’ll encourage them to stay and attend the largest tent revival meeting this country has ever seen.”
“But Lindbergh said he wouldn’t speak at your revival,” Mother reminded him.
Father waved away her concern. “I don’t need him to speak. I just need him to come to Minneapolis.”
The front doorbell rang, making me jump. “I’ll get it,” I said, hoping it wasn’t another one of Andrew’s conquests.
But when I opened the door, I was surprised to find an old family friend. “Lewis.”
He was dressed in a fine suit and holding his fedora in his hands. I hadn’t seen him since Christmas. Somehow, he looked more dapper and confident than ever before.
“Hello, Curly Carrie.”
And apparently still fond of the nickname I had despised as a teen, received once he found out my synthetic curls were the result of magic wave curlers.
“You know I hate that name.”
He grinned and winked at me. “That’s why I use it.”
With a sigh I said, “Won’t you come in?” I moved aside and opened the door wider, knowing I couldn’t shut it in his face. “My parents will be happy to see you.”
He paused for a moment, his face growing serious, as if he was going to speak, but then he nodded and stepped into the foyer.
