The Last Pilot: A Novel (12 page)

An hour later, another nurse came in to fetch him. He followed her through a series of swinging double doors into a bright ward of shrouded beds. The nurse led him to a bed at the far end and pulled back the curtain. Grace looked up and smiled.

The nurse pulled the curtain closed as she left.

Hey, he said to Grace.

Hey. Shh. Come see.

She held a white woolen blanket in her arms, so small; a red face, a knitted blue hat. Harrison went over, kissed his wife and bent down, breaking into a lopsided grin. He touched the baby’s cheek.

It’s a girl, Grace said. She smiled.

How you feelin? he said. You okay?

Hair matted either side of her face, blotched red and white but gleaming; her lips fuller than usual.

I’m fine, she said.

You look awful, he said.

Gee, thanks, she said. You look worse, actually. You been drinking?

No, uh, no, not really, he said. Doesn’t matter. I can’t believe we have a little baby girl.

The baby lay silent and still, eyes shut, warm, with a belly full of milk.

Looks pretty straightforward, he said.

You should have been here half an hour ago, she said.

They wouldn’t let me, he said.

I heard.

Grace looked at her daughter.

When can we get out of here? Harrison said.

I’ll find out, Grace said.

Can I hold her? he said.

Sure you can, daddy-o, she said.

Grace carefully lifted the bundle toward his outstretched arms. He held her gently, his left hand bigger than her head. She coughed. It felt good to know there were doctors nearby. He held her close.

She smells good, he said.

That’ll change, she said.

He walked around the room with her, feeling her knees press against his rib cage.

You know, Grace said, Florence isn’t such a bad name.

Florence, he said. Florence Mayton …

Mayton? she said.

My mother, he said.

Really?

Yeah.

No, I mean, do we have to?

I’d like to, he said.

Florence Mayton Harrison … she said. Yeah, okay then.

Yeah? he said. That’s what you want?

Sure. You?

He thought for a second then said, yeah.

Okay then, she said. Here, let me see her.

He brought her over.

Florence … Grace said, as Harrison held her up. Florence …

You’re gonna be a daddy’s girl, aren’t you? he said, bringing her closer to his face. We’re gonna go huntin, fishin—

Probably catch more than you do, Grace said.

Well someone’s feelin perkier, he said.

He pulled over a chair with his foot and sat down, Florence resting across his chest.

I could still use a sleep, Grace said.

You must be beat, he said.

You betcha, she said, already sliding away. Harrison smiled and put his head back, feeling the warmth of his daughter through the blanket, and something in his heart kicked.

He took a few days from work. Ridley brought them home in his truck; the four of them crammed in the front, the old Triumph laid flat in the back.

My own bed, Grace said when she saw it.

Don’t get too comfortable, Harrison said.

They took Florence to her nursery. It was still unfinished; half-painted, pale green, boxes stacked waist-high on one side, waiting to be stored.

She won’t notice, Grace said. Or care.

I’ll finish it, he said.

The first days passed fast. He learned how to sterilize a bottle, make up formula, wear Grace’s pink gown to keep warm in the kitchen during early feeds. Florence cried hard when hungry and it cut into him; not the volume, or the sound, but the need. And it came with no warning, on no schedule, and took priority over all else. He didn’t like it. What did you expect? Grace said.

They had visitors. Grace Walker brought a stew, Pancho arrived with whiskey.

We called her Florence, Grace said.

Pancho pretended not to hear and complained about a bill she’d got from the vet.

He took Florence to the base, held her tight against him, this little thing, showing her to everyone.

He sat with her in Ridley’s office, pointing out airplanes in the hangar below.

Sure hope she can fly better than you, Walker said.

Damn sight smarter than you, Ridley said, not looking up from his report.

That night, Harrison put her to sleep in her crib, tucking the blanket in tight, stroked her head. She looked up at him. He folded the top of the blanket down, retucking it on either side. He frowned.

What are you doing? Grace said, walking into the dark room.

What if she wriggles in the night? he said. Pulls the blanket over her head?

She won’t.

But what if she does?

The blanket is woven loose, Grace said. Look.

He looked.

Is it too tight? he said.

It’s fine, she said.

Harrison sighed.

I can’t get the damn temperature in here right, he said.

She’ll tell you if she’s cold, Grace said. Quit worrying.

Later, on the sofa, Grace said, I never much thought of being a mother til I met you.

That so, he said, next to her, feet up on the coffee table.

Guess being an only child, it never really crossed my mind.

Too busy with the horses?

She gave a little laugh. Yeah, she said. Guess.

She sought out his hand and held it.

Then, after the war, she said, I don’t know; it was just there, in me, somehow.

Uh-huh.

You notice that funny noise she makes? she said, looking at him.

Yeah, he said. Like a quack, or something? Kinda cute; and a bit strange?

I think it’s cute, Grace said. She’s such a tiny thing, isn’t she, Jim?

Yeah, he said. He looked at her and smiled.

Our girl, she said. Say, you’d better turn in; you’re due on base at five.

Got Ridley to reschedule it, Harrison said.

Really? Grace said. He spoke to the old man?

Figure they can cut me some slack, Harrison said. Program’s ahead anyway.

She kissed his cheek.

What’s that for? he said.

Thank you, she said.

I need a drink, he said.

I’ll get you a beer, she said, standing, stretching, walking to the kitchen.

We can hear her down here, right? Harrison called out.

They’ll hear her in Rosamond, Grace said from the kitchen.

He grunted, reached for the newspaper, put it back down again.

I’m gonna get some air, he said.

What? she said.

Outside, the control tower glowed red spilling a dim light over the desert salt pan. He lit a cigarette, smoked it, went back inside. Grace had gone to bed. He sat in the kitchen and drank his beer.

MOJAVE DESERT
MUROC, CALIFORNIA
FEBRUARY 1961

The sun lulled brittlebush to early flower, full corollas turning the desert floor yellow. Harrison slid up his sunglasses, grinned, pushed open the door.

Daddy! Florence said.

Hey there, Duck, he said, stooping to pick her up. You had a good day?

Daddy’s home!

Grace leaned against the kitchen doorframe, wiping her hands on a towel.

Why yes he is, she said.

Harrison kissed his daughter on the cheek, then repeatedly under her chin. Florence threw her head back and giggled.

Least someone’s pleased to see me, he said.

Just surprised, is all, Grace said, walking toward him. Wasn’t expecting you til after five.

She kissed him.

Got off early, he said, putting Florence down.

Lucky you, Grace said, then sighed. Sorry, she’s been a handful. You okay?

Yeah, he said. Same old.

Daddy come with me, Florence said, cause you have to come with me.

Grace frowned and Harrison followed Florence to the kitchen.

Cookies! he said. Why, Duck, they’re my favorite!

Florence ran to her mother.

Daddy’s favorite! she said.

Isn’t he a lucky man, Grace said.

Florence turned to her father, who was eating a cookie, scowled, and said, you are lucky.

Harrison narrowed his eyes and finished the cookie; does somebody want a horse-bite? he said.

Florence squealed and ran to the sofa. Harrison ran after her, hands held open like claws. She buried her head in the cushions. Harrison grabbed the back of her thighs.

Horse-bite! he said.

Florence screamed and wriggled away. He growled and crawled after her on his hands and knees.

Mommy! Florence said.

Don’t hide behind me, Grace said. When your daddy’s in one of these moods, there’s not much anyone can do.

Florence ran back into the kitchen.

What’s got your goat? Harrison said to Grace, sitting up.

Nothing, she said, sorry; I’m just tired. Listen, instead of horsing around, I could use some help with dinner?

Sure, he said, standing up. Duck, he said, you’re safe now!

No, Daddy, she said. Cause you don’t do that.

C’mon, he said. Go play til supper.

Florence wandered off. Harrison turned back to Grace, who was staring into the steam rising from a pan of boiling water.

Hon? he said. You okay?

What? she said. Yeah, I’m fine.

She turned back to the vegetables on the countertop.

What can I do? he said.

You could set the table, she said.

Sure.

He began to set the table.

How about me takin Duck on her first fishin trip soon.

Jim, you can’t take her into the mountains; she’s way too young.

Kern River, he said. Nothin crazy. Cast a few lines, stick our feet in the water, have a little fun—that kinda thing. Might even catch us a trout or two.

She dropped the chopped vegetables into the pan of water and turned to look at him.

And how you gonna get there? she said.

Take out one of Pancho’s horses, he said. The gentlest one she got. Saddle her up, strap Duck to me; off we go.

And what happens when Florence loses interest and you can’t keep an eye on her because you’re fishing?

Well, I could take a good length of rope; tie one end around a tree, the other around her waist; pack a few toys for her.

Jim—

That’s not such a bad idea, he said. Relax. Look, we’ll be gone half a day, tops, and most of that’ll be ridin.

Grace looked out the window.

Well, okay, she said.

Hey, Duck, he yelled. Where’d she go?

Florence? Grace said, stepping into the living room.

Maybe I left the door open? Harrison said.

Jim, Grace said, the fence—

Her heart lurched.

You haven’t fixed it yet!

Shit, Harrison said, and ran outside. Grace followed. He looked around the yard.

She’s not here, he said.

Jesus, Jim—if she gets lost in the desert—

Call Ridley, get him in the air! he said, and jumped over the fence. Florence!

Grace ran back inside and dialed the base.

C’mon, she said, c’mon.

As the call connected, Harrison burst into the living room with their daughter under his arm.

Look what I found running around the Joshua trees, he said.

Florence, she said, thank God. Jack? Sorry, Jack, we had a missing girl for a while there, but it’s all okay now. Yeah, we’re fine—she looked up at Harrison—I will. Thanks, Jack; bye.

She replaced the receiver, took Florence from her husband’s hands, and raised hell.

We could have
lost
you, Florence.

Sorry, Mommy, Florence said.

Grace sighed, and put her down.

That’s okay, sweetheart, she said, just … don’t do it again.

Florence stepped back to her father and wrapped her arms around his legs. He put his hand on her head. There was a terrific rumble from outside. Harrison cocked his head.

Quick, he said to Florence.

They ran into the yard.

Look! he said.

The airplane was barely fifty feet off the deck, climbing toward them from the runway. It grew larger and louder; he had to shout to make himself heard over the roar of the rocket plane.

It’s an XF-92, he said.

Florence covered her ears.

Delta-wing prototype!

She said something, but he didn’t hear.

Controls are hydraulically operated, he said. Very sensitive. Sneeze on the stick and you’ll corkscrew in.

They watched the plane pass overhead. The thunder fell to a low grumble.

That was Pete Everest, he said.

Florence, hands still covering her ears, stared at him reproachfully and said nothing. Over her shoulder, in the doorway, Grace smiled.

LONG BEACH,
CALIFORNIA
APRIL 1961

Most days, the three of them stayed by the pool. They ate salty fries and drank cold Coca-Cola through colorful straws. In the early evening, they’d walk along the beach, the heat bearable by the water, the sun a fat orange closing in on the sea. Their room was a double with a sofa made up for Florence, who would kick off her blankets in the night and wake early, cold from the air-conditioning.

It was late morning, ten before twelve, hot outside. Sunlight slid down the balcony door and lolled in a silver pool beneath the glass, starving the room of color.