He opened his mouth and then closed it around whatever his first response had been. Kenneth sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, then set his tray aside and pushed the covers back.
“Nicole … It’s not just one thing.” When he got out of bed, his back was to me. He drew on his purple tapestry dressing gown and belted it around his waist. “Am I worried about the political implications of nepotism? I wouldn’t be doing my job if I weren’t, but in this case politics and my own fears overlap. What would have happened if you had been on that rocket?”
“The LES worked. If I’d been on that rocket, I would still be alive and you would have crafted a message—”
“Yes!” His gown flared as he turned, and the mild face had dropped away. He pointed a shaking hand to the sitting room. “Publicly, it would have been something I could have managed. Hell, my staff already has a statement drafted in case you die up there. But that’s not—that’s … That’s not what will happen to me.”
My throat tightened. I pushed back my chair and went to Kenneth, wrapping my arms around him. I’d seen what that seed of potential mourning did to the members of the Astronauts’ Husbands Club—hell, I’d visited a founding member in the hospital yesterday—but it was easy to forget the toll it took on Kenneth because he hid it so well.
Ah … The lies that I liked. I snuggled my head into his shoulder as we held each other. What I should say was that I would drop out of the program and stay home and be the politician’s wife that I used to be. My skin tightened across my bones thinking about trying to fit back into that box. More than that, I knew what it would do to the program if I dropped out right after the rocket failure.
I was too high profile: the wife of Governor Wargin, one of the original six women astronauts. Even if I was “old hat” people would notice and speculate that I had dropped out because the program was too dangerous. Or were those lies I was telling myself because I didn’t want to drop out? I tightened my fingers in the tapestry folds of his gown. “I’m sorry.”
He held me tighter and kissed me on the forehead. “Thank you.”
“You know, I’d…” I stopped the lie before I could go on. I’d quit if you asked me. He had asked me.
Kenneth winced before I’d even finished and looked away, shaking his head. “We’d better get going or we’ll be late for church.”
“Kenneth…”
He picked up his worn Bible and thumbed through the pages with a quiet riffle of onionskin. I don’t think he saw the book—
Book. I blinked. “There’s a way I can send you private messages. Just for you. Would that help?”
“What do you mean?”
I chewed on my lower lip for a moment, because I’d surprised the secret out of Nathaniel, but it was still his secret. “Another astronaut and her husband are sending coded messages hidden in the teletype garbage—”
His jaw fell open. “Nathaniel and Elma are sending coded messages?”
I shouldn’t have been surprised that he guessed. “Don’t tell. We could use a code if it would help reassure you.”
“Reassure— For the love of God, Nicole.” Kenneth swiped his hand through his hair, leaving it in disarray. “People think there’s a conspiracy at the highest level of the IAC and now it turns out that the lead engineer is sending coded messages to the First Mars Expedition.”
My veins curled up and shriveled into knots. “Well, shit.” I closed my eyes, remembering the FBI crawling all over Nathaniel’s office. “We may have a situation.”
Kenneth groaned and sat in a rustle of fabric and the clatter of porcelain. “What.”
I forced my eyes open. Kenneth sat crumpled against the headboard, his coffee cup tipped over on the tray. I wet my lips. “I sent a message for Nathaniel.” I was such a fool. I should have spotted this vulnerability. God, I wanted to explain it away—that Nathaniel had been worried. That I’d bargained him into letting Hershel come out. None of that was germane to the issue at hand. “After I visited the hospital, I went back to the IAC and sent a coded message on the teletype using his passcodes. I should also note that the FBI was still on campus, specifically searching Nathaniel’s office.”
“You do remember that you’re the First Lady of Kansas, don’t you? You know how that’s going to look.”
“You were the one who was wanting to help Nathaniel lie to Elma.”
Kenneth tensed and his face went completely blank. Rising from the bed, he undid the belt of his dressing gown. “We’d better hurry or we’ll be late for church.”
“I don’t care about the damn church.”
“I’m well aware of that, Nicole.” He held up a tie and laid it against his suit. “It would be nice if you cared about me more than you do the Moon.”
“Jesus Christ. Do you have any more cheap shots you want to take?”
“No. But if you keep pushing me, I will.” Kenneth opened his closet door and dug around looking for a pocket square. “I’m angry, and right now, both of us need to put on a good face when we step out.”
I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to be petty and ask him to coordinate my wardrobe. I wanted to storm out of the room. But I am a goddamned adult. My voice was clipped and formal, but it beat my other choices. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’ll brief Mr. Davis as soon as we get home.”
“Thank you. I’m also sorry.” Kenneth bent his head as if he were praying, and then turned to face me. “I know yesterday was difficult. I should have taken that into account when I responded, and I would appreciate a conversation later.”
We’re diplomats, both of us. I dressed and put on a tasteful shade of red lipstick to go with my practiced Sunday-best smile. God forbid that someone at church think our marriage was in trouble.
ELEVEN
THE MOON-DOGGLE: Domestic and International Implications of the Space Race
By AMITAI ETZIONI
Meg Greenfield reported from The National Times to The Reporter: “The Moon program was worked out over a hectic weekend in May of 1953 at the Bunker following the Meteor strike on Washington, D.C. It was a political response to the tidal waves and the fires of the disaster, among other things. Reportedly, President Brannan, Dr. Nathaniel York, one of the remnants of the NACA, and a few others met around the clock starting Friday evening and worked out the crash program that was presented to the UN for a decision the following Monday. ‘We have been told,’ as one of the participants puts it, ‘not to fool around.’”
Never has a more important peacetime decision been based on less research and deliberation. On May 25, 1953, the UN proclaimed the establishment of a colony on the Moon as a major international goal and the highest-ranking space project.
Kenneth and I belong to the Topeka First United Methodist Church, which has the distinction of being older than the state of Kansas. When we joined, I had not noticed that the congregation was exclusively white. Now, after years of working at the International Aerospace Coalition, I found the church disquieting in the sameness of the flock.
As we approached the vestibule, I lined up my script for running the gauntlet to the sanctuary. Kenneth does not get to stop being a politician, even on his day of rest. My usual set was:
“So good to see you!”
“What a charming hat/coat/brooch.”
“I would love to talk longer, but I need to keep Kenneth moving…”
But today I had a bandage on my chin and that was going to be its own set of fun. As Jane Austen might have said, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman with a bandage upon her chin must be the subject of gossip. It began the moment we hit the vestibule. Oh, they were all too well bred to openly gawk, but the number of people who suddenly needed to contemplate the stained glass windows just on the other side of me was impressive.
Kenneth squeezed my hand in a quick double beat that meant trouble was incoming. A bulldog of a man stumped up to us, the empty left sleeve of his coat pinned up in its customary place.
I slid between Kenneth
and him. “Mr. Salvatore. So good to see you!”
“Good lord!” Mr. Salvatore did a double take at my chin. “Were you on that rocket?”
“Not at all, we were breakfasting with some friends.” I smiled with the warmth of a pre-Meteor sun. “What a charming lapel pin.”
“Thank you.” He glanced down as if he’d forgotten he put it on.
In his moment of inattention, I tried to steer Kenneth around him before Mr. Salvatore could start complaining about my husband’s policies. “I would love to talk longer, but I need to keep Kenneth moving…”
“See here, Governor. What are you going to do about those blasted rockets?”
Well, I’d tried to deflect him. His war injury meant that he’d never be declared fit for space travel and as far as he was concerned, if we couldn’t get everybody off the planet then no one should go. He didn’t seem to understand that the Earth was like the Titanic. It was going to go down. We didn’t have enough lifeboats for everybody, but that didn’t mean we shouldn’t try to save as many people as we could.
Kenneth’s voice was genial with a layer of ice beneath it. “Come by the office and I’ll be happy to talk. But let me have my day of rest and leave the politics at the door.”
As if we ever, ever got to do that. I put my hand on Mr. Salvatore’s upper arm to build rapport and smiled at him. “So good to see you— Oh! I think the prelude is starting.”
It was, and that marks the only time I’ve been happy to hear his wife’s amorous vibrato.
As Kenneth and I made a break for it, he leaned down to whisper, “Thank you.”
We made it to our customary pew and I sank onto the padded bench. The ritual sequence of sitting and standing gave me space in which to calm myself. This is the value of ritual and repetition, be it in a cockpit or in a church pew. Familiarity gives us room to breathe and to think.
Our marriage was in trouble, because the warning bells had been ringing and I hadn’t been paying attention. Kenneth was focused on politics. I was focused on space. I could not remember the last time we had gone somewhere without an agenda.
The Methodist mumble took me mindlessly through the Gloria Patri and into the Lord’s Prayer. At times, I have felt hypocritical reciting these words, but in truth, even when I was one of the faithful, I rarely paid attention to what I was actually saying. Ironically, after parting from God, I often found resonance in the words of the service. Of course, I can also find resonance in lyrics sung by Ella Fitzgerald, so take that as you will.
But when I said, “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,” I took Kenneth’s hand. I hate it when we quarrel. It worried me that I hadn’t seen this one coming. He looked down and squeezed my hand. This unspoken conversation was not a lot, but it gave me faith that he and I could work the problem.
* * *
After church, we escaped the gauntlet of the Fellowship Hall and slid into the back seat of our waiting car. Kenneth took my hand. “Maybe we could go out for brunch?”
“That sounds lovel— Oh. Wait.” I ran my gloved thumb around the end of his fingers feeling the warm blunt shape of them. “I’m sorry. I promised Myrtle I would help her prep for a check ride. A late lunch?”
He grimaced and kissed the cotton of my glove. “I have an afternoon meeting.”
Our driver got into the front seat and that was it for our private conversation. I made a promise of my smile. “All right, I’ll make sure I’m back in plenty of time for dinner.”
He gave me a funny look, before lowering my hand to hold it on his thigh. “Did you remember that we have opera tickets tonight?”
I let my head drop back against the seat. “No.” Beyond the rear window, the sky was a high, clear overcast. “Should we skip it? Or no—wait. I forgot. We need to schmooze with the Fergusons. It’s Idomeneo, right?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged and left my hand in his, watching the tree branches pass as we drove down the street. “Me, too.”
* * *
Kenneth has his church and I have mine. The incense is the heady aroma of petroleum products in the form of fuel and tarmac. We have our catechism of call signs and the high holy language of acronyms. In the temple that is the hangar, we store our artifacts, relics, and holy vessels.
I got out of my car, and my fellow priestesses of the sky looked around, waving. Myrtle Lindholm was sitting with the group at the picnic table by the hangar doors laughing with Imogene.
“Myrtle! Sorry to keep you waiting.” I slammed the door of the car, shoving my keys in my pocket.
“Gave me a chance to catch up.” She shrugged. “I haven’t been to a 99s meeting in over a ye— What in the world did you do?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Helen Carmouche pulled her head out of the engine of her Beechcraft Staggerwing. When we’d started, she’d been the only astronaut from Taiwan and now we had six. Today, she had a smudge of grease on her forehead and winked. “Don’t tell us, you cut it shaving.”
Across the table from her, Betty looked up from a newspaper. “My bet is a gardening accident.”
“Don’t be silly. She sliced it on her own wit.” Imogene ducked under the wing of her Mustang and stared at the bandage. “How many stitches you got under there?”
“Seven. And I’m stealing all of those explanations.” I bent over to grab a cookie from the picnic table. I didn’t want it, but I’d skipped lunch to get out here on time. It was deep brown and coated with sugar crystals.
Imogene laughed. “Question. Helen said your trip was bumped up?”
“Why, were you hoping to borrow my plane?” The Beechcraft Debonair, with its five seats, is perfect for taking visiting dignitaries up and allowing my husband to woo them with unsurpassed views of the great state of Kansas. That impresses them.
What impresses them more, is when I take the plane up above the cloud cover and remind them what a blue sky looks like. As the golden light of unfiltered sun floods the cabin, I’ve seen senators weep.
Imogene shook her head. “Just wondering if there was anything I should know before the Monday-morning staff meeting?”
Some of the newer members drifted toward us with that question. Alyshondra Meacham casually picked up a cookie. Birgit Furst just happened to need to get a rag near us. Rehema Njambi didn’t even pretend to be subtle about listening to my answer.
I rolled my eyes. “You can’t possibly believe that Clemons would pre-brief any woman. Monday will be a surprise for all of us.”
The subtle art of not lying while lying. I hated keeping the secret about Icarus from this group, but I’d handled sensitive information before and knew how to compartmentalize. At the same time … Myrtle and Helen were two of my closest friends. The FBI was visibly on campus so I could at least alert them about that. I kept my voice light and breezy. “Hey, Helen. Come up with us and you can help Myrtle reorient to Earth.”
Helen cocked her head for a moment before nodding. “Sounds good.”
She knew something was up. The challenge with having very smart friends who knew you well was that they could tell when you were redirecting them. Keeping the Icarus project a secret was going to be a challenge.
* * *
I love the ritual of a preflight check. The order and rhythm fill my brain and push the fragmented list of things-that-must-be-done away. Hobbs and squawks … CHECKED. Exterior preflight … COMPLETE. Fuel … MEASURED. All electric … OFF. Avionics master … OFF. Front seat belts …
“How’s your seat belt?” I turned to Myrtle, who sat in the copilot seat beside me.
“Secured.” Her voice carried a slight edge of nerves. Which was fair, since I was clearly up to something. That or the fact that I was about to let her fly my Debonair. After we were up, I mean. I wanted to see how she handled the stick before I let her do a takeoff or landing.
From behind us, Helen confirmed that her belt was secured. I hadn’t had doubts, but we go t
hrough these checklists with faith that they will keep us safe.
I opened the window and yelled, “Clear prop!”
No one was anywhere near it, because the 99s have sense, but you never know when some random stranger is going to wander onto the field. I pulled the starter and fastened the window.
It muffles the sound, but not usually enough to carry on a real conversation. Fortunately, Kenneth and I had invested in upgrading the comms on the plane. The voice-operated exchange was a miracle of technology, since VOX meant I could talk to my husband without having to release the controls.
In my ear, Myrtle activated her mic as we rolled onto the runway. “Don’t be gentle.”
“Darling. I had no intention of it.” I hurtled us down the runway and did the shortest takeoff I could. G-forces pressed us back into our seats with more suddenness than a rocket launch, even if nowhere near the power.
Beside me, she laughed with delighted abandon.
We had to wait until we climbed to nine hundred meters before I could indulge in any real aerobatics—oh, I was rated at four hundred and sixty, but I wouldn’t with passengers—which meant we had time for conversation. “Imogene asked about what you should know before tomorrow’s meeting. As briefly as I can … The FBI is on campus because Nathaniel was poisoned this weekend. He was—” My ears filled with startled exclamations.
“Poison!”
Myrtle’s voice snapped over the comm. “What— What the heck, Nicole.”
“I know. We thought it was an ulcer at first and—”
“I mean, why didn’t you call us?”
“Oh.”
“Reynard is one of his best friends.” Helen’s voice was quieter but edged with bitter anger. “Why were we not told?”
“I’m sorry. After the FBI questioned us they asked us to be quiet about it.”
“We are his friends.” Helen’s diction always becomes very crisp when she is angry. Excited? Then her native Taiwanese syntax comes out a little. At the moment, she sounded like old New England money. “We should have been there for him.”
The Relentless Moon Page 10
