The Last Pilot: A Novel (27 page)

What can we do? she said. We must be able to do something.

Nothing. There’s nothing we can do. Except wait it out.

And pray. We can pray.

He thought for a second then said, yes, we could pray. So they sat closer together and shut their eyes and Grace said a prayer which lasted no longer than a minute.

Let’s go to bed, he said, afterward. No sense staying up waiting for something to happen.

They went to bed and lay together in silence and he found himself thinking on his daughter’s grave and he didn’t know why. He thought of something else, of McNamara, of Sorensen, of Bobby; men like him, no different, all breathing the same air as him, dressing in the mornings as he did, all lying in dark rooms wondering what tomorrow would bring. He felt uneasy and hot and he couldn’t get comfortable. He shut his eyes. He saw the cemetery, the grass, the stone angel on the tomb near the gate. He felt short of breath. He tried to think of something else, but he couldn’t get the image out of his mind. He sat up and turned the light on. His back and legs were wet from where he was sweating. He smoked a cigarette and tapped the ash into a tray he balanced on his chest. When he’d finished, he moved the tray back to his bedside table, turned out the light and pulled Grace closer to him. She slid her feet between his and he fell asleep.

First light was cool and gray.

Do you want some coffee? Grace said, getting out of bed.

That’d be good, he said. Guess the world’s still here.

She let out a little laugh.

Maybe it’s just us? he said.

If it is, she said, I’m taking you to Hawaii.

How would we get there?

You could fly us.

They went downstairs and read the morning paper together over breakfast.

Anything new? Grace said.

Yeah, he said. Emergency meeting of the Security Council last night. I always thought Stevenson was a sorry sonofabitch but it turns out he’s got some balls after all. Asked Zorin about the missiles straight out. Zorin refused to answer. Then Stevenson said he was prepared to wait til hell froze over for an answer! Told Zorin he’d present the evidence himself if he continued to ignore the question.

What happened? Grace said.

They set up an easel at the back of the room and showed everyone the photographs—look.

He showed her the picture in the paper.

Three photos, he said. One twenty-four-hour period.

The Cubans built all that in a day? she said.

Well, they had plenty of help from their Red friends, he said.

Jesus.

There’s more, Harrison said. Lots more. Read the rest of it, right there. Those goddamn lying Soviet bastards.

And this was yesterday? she said, reading.

Yeah, he said, pouring himself another coffee.

She folded the paper and sighed.

Listen, Jim, she said. I need to talk to you.

Can it wait? he said, glancing up at the clock.

You’re not going in again are you?

Damn right I’m going in.

Jim, please; I need you here. Who the hell knows what’ll happen?

I have to, he said.

I’m your wife and I’m asking you to stay.

I have to go in.

The program’s more important than me?

Jesus, Grace.

Is the program more important than me?

Come on.

Answer the goddamn question!

Yes, he said. The program’s more important than you.

You son of a bitch, she said.

Grace—

No. Screw you.

Listen a minute, would you. This isn’t about you or flyin anymore. This is about
them
and
us
. Look at this, he said, picking up the newspaper and tossing it down.
Look
at it. We can’t afford to lose. This—all this—we’re at
war
. And we have to beat the Soviets. We have to dominate. We have to win. And I have to work.

Harrison sat at his desk and read through his memos. Rain hammered against the mottled glass window behind him. Deke had assigned each of the Nine an area of specialization. Harrison got Guidance and Navigation, which was better than Boosters or Recovery. McDonnell was falling behind building the Gemini spacecraft. Grissom had been directed to oversee the work full-time up at the McDonnell plant in St. Louis. The first unmanned flight was just thirteen months away, in December, sixty-three. Harrison doubted they could deliver on time. He sighed, lit a cigarette, sat back. He was tired. He’d slept badly. He thought back to the craziness of the previous day and then an unrelated thought, generated by some foreign part of his mind, appeared, and the thought was of Florence’s frail body in the ground.

Jesus! He sat up, coughing on the smoke in his lungs. His forehead pimpled with sweat. He shook his head, as if to physically dislodge the thought from his consciousness, but it wouldn’t shift. How could he think that? Jesus Christ. What the hell kind of person was he? He tried to think of something else, but couldn’t; it snapped back. It moved from thought to image; vague to detailed. Christ! He rubbed his face and cried out in horror. He stood up and walked around the room. His hands trembled. He sweated harder. There was a knock on his door.

Shit.

It was Lovell.

Yeah, Harrison said.

Hey, Jim, Lovell said. Do you—are you all right?

Huh?

You look awful.

Oh, yeah, thanks, I’m fine; just tired.

Listen, can I show you something? Lovell said.

Yeah, Jim, sure, Harrison said. Just—could you give me a minute?

Sure thing. Come find me.

Lovell left. Harrison wiped his brow. His gut felt liquid. He walked fast to the men’s room, locked himself in a cubicle, tried to focus on what Lovell might want with him.

When he got home that night he went straight upstairs and sat on the bed and loosened his tie. The rest of his day had passed without incident. Lovell’s interruption had been enough to knock him back to reality. His mind kept drifting back to what had happened, but he sensed danger in dwelling on the specifics, so he hauled it in and focused on the present. He went down to the kitchen.

Honey? he said.

Outside, she said from the patio.

What you doing out here? he said, joining her. It’s miserable.

Thinking, she said.

He took off his tie and sat down.

How you been? he said. Good day?

I went over to Sue Borman’s for coffee.

All the wives?

She nodded.

What’s the matter?

Ugh, it’s terrible, Jim, just … awful.

Awful?

It’s all so … phony. I hate it. I guess the relief of leaving flight test has worn off for everyone and been replaced with the holy terror of the
launch
. And the subsequent thought of three dead husbands circling the moon forever. No one will talk about it though. Not even with each other. I want to shake them and say, my God, who
else
are you gonna talk to? They do this stupid skit—Rene came up with it—she calls it the
Squarely Stable
routine. I guess it was meant to be funny, keep everyone’s spirits up from dealing with the press—and maybe it was the first time—but they do it
every
time and it’s driving me crazy.

Grace stood up and held her fist to her mouth, as though holding a microphone, and started acting out Rene Carpenter impersonating a television correspondent they called Nancy Whoever.

We’re here in front of the trim, modest suburban home of Squarely Stable, the famous astronaut, who has just completed his historic mission, and we have here with us his attractive wife, Primly Stable. Primly Stable, you must be happy and proud, and thankful at this moment.

Grace’s tone shifted slightly.

Yes, Nancy, that’s true. I’m happy, proud, and thankful at this moment.

Grace continued.

Tell us, Primly Stable—may I call you Primly?

Why, certainly, Nancy.

Tell us, Primly, tell us what you felt during the blastoff, at the very moment when your husband’s rocket began to rise from the Earth and take him on this historic journey.

Honey, Harrison said.

To tell you the truth, Nancy, I missed that part of it. I sort of dozed off, because I got up so early this morning and I’ve been rushing around taping the shades shut so the TV people wouldn’t come in the windows.

Okay, Harrison said. I get it.

Well, would you say you had a lump in your throat as big as a tennis ball?

That’s about the size of it, Nancy, I had a lump in my throat as big as a tennis ball.

And finally, Primly, I know that the most important prayer of your life has already been answered: Squarely has returned safely from outer space. But if you could have one other wish at this moment and have it come true, what would it be?

Well, Nancy, I’d wish for an Electrolux vacuum cleaner with all the attachments.

Grace lowered her fist.

And then they roll about laughing for the next ten minutes, she said.

Harrison grunted. Grace sat down and said, all I want to say to the press when they ask me how I feel is, nobody cared before, so why the hell bother now? I wish Pancho was here. I wish she was at Sue Borman’s goddamn coffee mornings.

She’d sure put them in their place, he said.

Grace sighed. Her heart sunk low in her chest.

I miss her, she said.

They shot down a U-2 over Cuba today, he said.

I don’t care, she said.

He noticed the envelope on the table for the first time.

What’s that? he said.

It came this morning, she said.

Can we go in? It’s freezing out here, he said.

Sure.

They went inside.

What is it? he said.

She handed him the envelope. He opened it.

I don’t get it? he said.

It’s a thousand-dollar gift certificate to Neiman-Marcus, she said. It’s a fashion store downtown.

Who sent you this?

She gave a little laugh that was sad and ironic and bitter all at the same time.

It’s a gift from an anonymous priest, she said. We all got one. The nine of us.

Why the hell would a priest—

So we can afford the right clothes, she said. The right clothes for the society parties, the drinks receptions, the press conferences, the launches.

You’re kidding me? he said.

Wish I was, she said.

Jesus, he said. That’s a little odd.

A little odd? she said. A little odd? A so-called priest giving me a thousand bucks to go shopping? Yeah, Jim, I’d say that was a little goddamn odd. On the upside, I can now buy dresses I don’t like for parties I despise. A black backless number, maybe? Some feathers and sequins? Some daytime attire from Yves Saint Laurent? Because that’s what’s missing from my life? I’m sick of it, Jim—I hate it; I hate this. I miss the desert; the wilderness. I want to ride a horse if I want, or take a walk with earth not concrete under my feet. And this, this is the worst kind of suburbia. This has been
created
. There’s nothing authentic about any of it, apart from the goddamn lake, and that’s one giant goddamn oil slick. I’m sorry, Jim; I want to go back.

You just want to go back so you can visit the Rosamond Park Cemetery every day, he said.

Jesus, she said. You still can’t say her name, can you? It’s
Florence
.
Florence!

He didn’t say anything.

And she’s dead because the cobalt killed her, Grace said.

It was the only option left! There wasn’t anything else we—

Yes there was! she said. Nothing. We could have done nothing. And if we had, she could have gone on, she could still—

Nothing? How could we have done
nothing
?

That’s the thing with you, Jim, she said. You’ve always got to be doing
something
. Even if it means—

She broke off.

What? he said.

What the hell does it matter.

We had
no choice
! Harrison said.

There is
always
a choice! Grace said.

So it’s my fault, is it? My fault she’s—

He hesitated.

It was a decision we made
together
, he said.

You sure about that? she said. Duck would be three and a half now.

Don’t, he said.

Don’t what? Talk about it? You want me to be like you? Do you have any idea what it was like—what it
is
like—being married to you? You left me on my own to deal with it! You never
ever
talked to me. You
never
talked about it.

Doesn’t mean I didn’t—

I know that, she said. I know it devastated you. It broke you. I could see it. I could tell. I knew how much you loved her. I know.

His face was wet.

You shut yourself off, she said. You went straight back to work. That hurt me so much. I needed you … desperately. I was so angry. You knew that. You just kept as far away from it as you could. You kept away from me.

Tears fell silently down his face.