By rights Amanda would have been the one in the balloon with Norman. Norman at the helm, if that is what it is called, and Amanda leaning on the rail or rim or whatever that is called, and waving to the crowd below. He would have worn his captain’s hat, and she would have had on the gold-sequined gown she bought for the gala but never got to wear, thanks to Genevieve. She was already in the gown, was in front of the mirror adjusting the tiara, when Genevieve burst in and said gleefully in front of everyone, “Amanda will not be going to the ball.”
Though she would not be going up in the balloon this time, Amanda was comforted by the knowledge that neither would Genevieve. And there would be other balloons for Amanda, other days, perhaps even other Normans, while Genevieve would not even see a balloon again unless she had her eye at the air hole in the dungeon or oubliette, or whatever it is called, when one went floating by.
Only boys were allowed in the balloon. When we peered into the hangar and saw the sign “No Girls Aloft,” we adjourned to Millie’s room and talked about getting even. Genevieve, who was still a member, gave a talk on sex as a weapon. Amanda showed off her new hat. Clara and Bibi got tangled in a lover’s knot while everyone took pictures. Genevieve stormed out.
There was a great cry from outside. We clumped at the window. From below we looked like a bouquet of flowers, Norman said later. The boys had the balloon out on the lawn. Norman waved his captain’s hat, and they loosed the anchor ropes. The balloon floated up, and there was Genevieve striding from the house. She stood on the lawn in a tangle of cast-off ropes and waved them up, and now they were waving down at her as she grew smaller and smaller. This was a picture none of them forgot: Genevieve in a white frock, on tiptoe, waving a small white handkerchief. Everyone’s heart broke at once.
The age of flight had dawned. People lost interest in stuffed birds and waltzes. Amanda could not imagine anything more colorful than a balloon or anybody more colorful than Norman. The passion for the Montgolfier was greater than any passion before it. The orchestra played tangos, the balloons rose into the sky and disappeared behind the turrets, and at night they heard the guns.
Our generation was scarred by the balloons, by their ascent and their crashes, our hopes lifted and dashed. They crashed on their own or were made to crash by people shooting up at them. The broken balloons lay everywhere. They hung from trees and lay like wrinkled skins on the lawns. Peter took to drink, and Millie disappeared in a cloud of marijuana.
Norman came back. The bill of his captain’s hat had been shot away. He had lost his color. Amanda led him, a small gray man, to fetch Genevieve from the dungeon. They showed her the presidential pardon, and she wept. Millie came out of her cloud and found them still there sitting on the old broken sofa. They thought they would move to one of the southwestern states. Norman flew over Arizona and reported back: the shadows there are like house cats, he said, and there is nowhere to hide.