The Last Pilot: A Novel (28 page)

I can’t stay here, she said. I want to go back. I want to go home.

I can’t go back, he said.

But I can’t stay here, she said. I know the program needs the perfect marriage. So I’m just gonna go. You can tell Deke whatever you want. Tell him I’m sick. I owe you that much.

Harrison didn’t say anything.

I’m going to stay in a hotel downtown tonight, she said. I booked it after I got back from Sue’s. Tomorrow I’m flying to LA. Grace Walker is picking me up from the airport. Air force hasn’t leased the house to anyone yet, so I’m going back. They’ll be happy to get it off their hands again. I miss our home. I miss my friends. And I miss my little girl. I feel close to her there. I like being surrounded by her life. I’ll call you in a few weeks.

He didn’t say anything.

I’ve got a bag, she said. It’s in the guest room.

She went to get it. Then she left.

The next day, a deal was reached; Khrushchev and Kennedy talked under the table. Grace had taken Milo, and he was alone. He spent the morning rearranging his office. There was too much clutter. He tidied stationery into drawers, filed away paperwork. The filing system was inconsistent and it made him uneasy. He instructed his secretary to deal with it when he was gone. He was due in Baltimore that afternoon for a tour of the Martin Company, who were assembling the Titan II rockets for Gemini. He unpinned the photograph of Grace from the corkboard on the wall and put it in the middle drawer of his desk underneath a technical report on the feasibility of landing the Gemini spacecraft on a dry lake using a paraglider. Who wanted to be churning around on the swells waiting for a bunch of goddamn swabbos to come unbuckle you? Plus keeping most of the US Navy on active standby for the length of the mission was incredibly expensive. It would be a hell of a thing to set foot on the moon only to drown in the stinking sea of the Atlantic as soon as you made it back to Mother Earth. Imagine that. He didn’t like to. He pulled everything else from the corkboard and put it in his drawer with the picture. Then he cleared off his desk. It was hot. He buzzed his secretary.

Maggie, he said. Is the goddamn air on?

Maggie poked her head in.

Sorry, Jim, what was that?

What’s the point of having an intercom if you’re just going to come in anyway? Is the AC on?

I believe so, she said.

Okay then, he said.

Are you all right?

I’m fine. I’m going to Baltimore.

Poor you.

Yeah, he said. I need to speak to Deke when I get back. Could you get me the first five minutes he has?

Of course, Maggie said.

No—wait, Harrison said. Scratch that. I’ll catch up with him in Sacramento.

Any advance on that? she said.

No, he said, I—

A thought hit him hard.

What? she said.

Shit.

Jim?

Wait! he said. Sorry. Could you, uh, just give me a minute? Sorry.

She pulled the door shut. He fell back on his desk, leaning against it, sweating, through his face, his hands, the back of his legs.
What if Grace was right?
What if it
was
his fault? No, they had come to the decision together.
You sure about that?
He remembered them sitting by Duck’s hospital bed as she slept. He remembered Lapitus leaving them to talk. He’d been so tired; so tired he could barely function. What had they said to each other? How had they decided? He couldn’t remember.
Shit shit shit
. He shut his eyes tight. Something about reaching the end of the line—or had he imagined that? Duck being strong. What had they said? He couldn’t remember.
C’mon, c’mon.
He felt something. Then it was gone. What the hell was it? He rubbed his face with his hands.
Decisiveness
. Why had he felt suddenly decisive, f’chrissakes? He tried to experience the feeling again. His recall triggered a memory: Duck’s bedside, Lapitus gone, talking to Grace, feeling
decisive
. Lapitus, his voice; that hospital, its empty hallways. He suddenly saw the janitor; his slow gait, that steel bucket, loping along the hallway as Lapitus talked about cobalt for the first time.

Fear held Harrison hard.

That was it—right there!—watching the janitor walk away. He’d thought,
if it comes down to it
. He
had
decided. Alone! Right there in the goddamn hallway! Jesus Christ.
A measure of last resort!
He’d decided, he’d talked to Grace, he’d given Lapitus the go-ahead, despite Lapitus saying she wouldn’t be able to take it.
He’d decided.
Without discussion, without deliberation—because, because—
why
? Why had he done that? He pushed further into himself. Because he liked being in control; because—
yes, go on, say it you sonofabitch
—because
being in control makes you feel good—
no, worse—
because it makes you feel important.
Jesus Christ. He had killed her. He had killed his own daughter. Because of his ego. His heart wailed. A new thought invaded his mind—his hands around his daughter’s neck, crushing her windpipe, squeezing the life out of her. In the office, he cried out, pushing his fingers to his forehead, trying to rid himself of the intrusion, the thought, but it came back, again and again and again, each time with more power. And now she was looking up at him, in pain, in horror, at what he was doing. No, he cried. No!

His heart tried to bust out of his rib cage and his body was a hundred and sixty pounds of panic.

Maggie buzzed him. He looked up at the door.

Not now! he yelled. Blood beat in his ears. Had she heard? Would she come in? His legs were numb. He held onto his desk, walking around it, then sat in his chair, feeling dizzy. His mouth was dry.

The door opened.

Jim?

Maggie, he said. Uh, sorry. Come in.

It’s okay, she said. It can wait. God, you still look peaky. Let me get you some water. You never drink enough water. Hold on.

She disappeared and he pulled at his clothes where they were stuck to his skin. He wiped his face and ran his fingers through his hair. Maggie returned with a tall glass of water.

Here you go, she said.

He took the glass and drank it in one long gulp.

Better? she said.

He nodded.

See? she said.

And he did feel better. His pulse slowed to a steady thump. His head felt clear, but his mind tugged at the thoughts he’d had. Maggie cut them off.

Look, if you feel well enough, go to Baltimore, she said. If not, go home. We’re not going to the moon this afternoon.

I’m fine, he said. I’m going to Baltimore.

He gathered his things and left.

They had rooms at the Lord Baltimore, a twenty-three-story hotel housed in a French Renaissance building that once hid a speakeasy in the basement. The tour of Martin had been productive. The Titan II was on track. The engineers were doing solid work. Good job too; it would be his ass on the line soon enough.

Harrison dropped his bag off in his room and went down to the bar. The soft Art Deco golds and browns and reds soothed his eyes. He ordered a scotch, which soothed him further. The others were still upstairs, in their rooms, taking showers. He hadn’t bothered. Deke appeared from an elevator and Harrison waved him over.

What are you doing here? Harrison said.

Last-minute meeting with Larry about the booster. I’ll have one of them, Deke said to the bartender, pointing at Harrison’s glass. The bartender nodded, and walked away.

So what do you think?

Of the scotch? Harrison said.

Of Martin.

They’re on schedule. What else is there?

You okay?

Fine, Harrison said. But, look, Deke, I got something I need to tell you.

No good conversation ever started out like that, Deke said.

I was gonna tell you in Houston, but, shit, Deke, he said. Grace has gone back to California.

On vacation?

Permanently.

Right.

Look, I respect you more than anyone around here, so I wanted to be straight with you. I know the program doesn’t need a divorce and, hell, it might not even come to that, but, well, it’s been a long time comin, I guess. I mean, Christ, I wish it wasn’t happening but … It’s been a tough few years.

Deke didn’t say anything. The bartender returned with Deke’s scotch.

All we’re doing is living apart, Harrison said. Grace told me we could say what we want. Say she’s sick; that she’s gone back to rest, away from all this. She doesn’t care. She was dyin here, Deke.

Look, Deke said, picking up his drink. We’re not the morality cops. I just need you focused on the right thing.

And I am, Harrison said.

Good, Deke said. Then that’s all there is. That’s me talking as your boss. As your friend, I sure am sorry to hear it.

Yeah, Harrison said. She took Milo.

She took the dog?

Yeah. And the goddamn coffee machine too.

The coffee machine?

It was a good one.

I’d like to see someone put that in a blues song.

Glad I’m here to keep you entertained, Harrison said.

Deke looked over at the elevator.

I gotta go, Deke said. Here’s Gus.

Harrison looked around and saw Grissom approach them.

Now, Gus here, Deke said. He’s a gruff little fella, but he sure knows how to cut loose when called for.

Where you headin? Harrison said.

Gonna find us some fun, Gus said.

You wanna come? Deke said.

I’m gonna sit here, finish this drink, then grab some food with a few of the boys.

Well, okay then, Deke said. Guess I’ll see you at the Cape on Tuesday.

Sure thing.

Take it easy, son.

The two men left. Harrison sighed, lit a cigarette, finished his drink. Then he went up to his room, ordered a hamburger, ate half, fell asleep. He had strange dreams. When he woke his legs were half off the bed and someone was knocking at his door. Where the hell was he? What day was it? He sat up, groggy, rubbed his face. There was no one at the door. Maybe he’d dreamt it. He lit a cigarette and walked to the window and looked out. Baltimore fell below. Jeez, he was up high. He hadn’t realized. His room was pretty nice too. Was he in one of the penthouse suites? He looked around. He was. This astronaut business sure had unexpected perks. He drew on his smoke and felt pretty good about himself.
Ego
. It hit him hard. Inside his belly, his gut moaned.
He’d decided. His ego had sentenced her to death.
His guilt crippled him. He felt sick.
Grace was right. She was right about him.
What if
others
found out? The
press
? His face, the headline,
MURDERER
. Ruin. No way out. One way out. How would he do it? He could jump off the twenty-third floor of a building. Maybe he should do it now? Jesus, no! He wasn’t suicidal! Why had he thought those thoughts? Maybe there was something to it? Maybe he
did
want to kill himself? His daughter was dead. His wife had left him. Maybe he’d see Duck again?
He was suicidal!
Panting, sweating, gut heaving, he fell back from the window and locked himself in the bathroom. Stop. Just because he’d had a thought about killing himself didn’t mean he’d thought about killing himself. It was just a thought. It just popped into his mind. It wasn’t his fault! Jesus Christ. He was going crazy. Maybe he would kill himself? Jesus Christ!

Okay, stop. He held his head in his hands. He replayed the entire sequence of thoughts in his head. He felt worse doing it, but he had to do it, he had to know! If he could hang his hide on the line, day in day out, he could do this. He did it. He was not suicidal. He was sure of that now. He was hot, shaking, exhausted, but felt better.

What time was it? How long had he been in the bathroom? He’d woken at six. He remembered glancing at the time before getting up to see who was at the door. He remembered thinking,
kinda early
? Harrison looked around for his watch. It was in his bag. It was nearly nine. Three hours! That was impossible. His watch must be wrong. There was a small alarm clock by his bed. It said nine. How had three hours passed just thinking about—

The thought of strangling Florence violated his mind. He cried out, but it was too late. He sat on the bed, pushing fingers into his forehead. He would never do that. He sat up, thinking hard. He would
never
do that. He hadn’t ever done that, had he? No, Christ, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. He’d decided to start the cobalt treatment though. He’d laid it down, to Lapitus, to Grace. She’d submitted. He remembered now. He went over it again, and again, and again, until his body shook. He’d decided. He’d made Grace agree.
Her body was too weak. She suffered.
It was his fault; it was all his fault.

He showered at eleven and was two hours washing. He ate nothing for lunch.
It was his fault.
Whenever the thought occurred, he would sit on the bed and go over the conversations with Grace, with Lapitus, unable to get up, unable to move on, until he’d reassured himself that the decision to use cobalt was considered, justified, shared. Those moments, that reassurance, he wanted to save, store, for the next time. Often, his concentration would be interrupted by a noise in another room—a flushing toilet, a slamming door—and he’d scream in frustration, having lost his place in the process, and have to start over, often hearing distant knocks or water creaking pipes or another door slam, which would send him back to the beginning again, as though he were climbing an impossibly slippery slide.