It’s a beautiful day, Grace said.
Yes it is, Glennis said.
The women sat and drank and the sun beat down on the bar.
Harrison’s voice; Pancho looked at Grace. He was taking off in a Shooting Star, flying chase with Kit Murray. Pancho poured herself a scotch. From the mothership, they heard four minutes called, then two minutes, then Ridley’s voice again, to Yeager, waiting in the plane below.
You all set, Chuck?
Hell, yeah, I’m tired of waitin; let’s drop this crate.
Countdown numbers tumbled from the radio. Pancho turned up the volume. The X-1 was dropped. They stared into their drinks and listened. Yeager lit the four rocket chambers and climbed, steep, up. His voice on the radio was faint, that West Virginian drawl.
Had a mild buffet […] jus the usual instability.
The X-1 reached point nine-six Mach.
Say Ridley, make a note here […] elevator effectiveness regained.
The Mach needle moved to point nine-eight, fluctuated, then went off the scale. Pancho heard a sudden, hard crack; sharp and loud enough to ripple the beer in the bottles and rattle the frames on the wall.
Say Ridley, make another note, will ya? There’s something wrong with this ol Machometer … it’s gone kinda screwy on me.
If it is, Chuck, we’ll fix it. Personally, I think you’re seeing things.
Well, guess I am, Jack, an I’m about to punch a hole in the sky.
They heard Yeager chuckle to himself. Glennis smiled. Pancho slammed her hands down on the bar.
Yeager! she said. That miserable sonofabitch! Just the usual instability? Man doesn’t have a nerve in his goddamn body!
Glennis laughed, Grace squeezed her hand and Pancho made martinis to celebrate.
The desert cooled, night fell. Yeager claimed his free steak dinner at Pancho’s.
Got you a present, Harrison said, handing him a brown paper package tied with string.
Thanks, he said, pulling at the string. Inside was a raw carrot, a pair of glasses and an old length of rope.
All cowboys use rope, Harrison said. You can use that to tie yourself to the horse.
Tricky seein things in the dark, Ridley said. Jackrabbit holes, corral gates …
Why, thanks a whole lot, Yeager said. One thing about you guys, you’re real sincere.
He stuck the carrot in his mouth, put on the glasses and swung the rope around his head.
The men laughed. Pancho came over.
How’s the Lone Ranger? she said.
All right, all right, Glennis said. Time to give the fastest man in the world some peace.
There was cheering.
Don’t feel right, Pancho said, not celebrating properly.
Orders are orders, Ridley said.
This is the most historic flight since the goddamn Wright Brothers and the air force wants to keep a lid on it.
Just the way they figured it, Harrison said.
Well it’s a crock of shit, Pancho said.
Matters that we busted that ol sound barrier; doesn’t matter who knows.
You can’t keep a thing like that secret, she said. Word’ll get out and every hot pilot in the country will know this is the place to aim for. This here’s the new frontier. Everything’s gonna change. So tell Boyd I’ll keep his little secret—hell, I’m keeping enough of his dirty ones anyways—but tonight, we’re celebratin.
Pancho threw out anyone not involved with the X-1 program and declared the bar gratis. She always had her booze flown up from Mexico, telling everyone it tasted better tax-free. Grace handed out cold cuartito bottles of Pacífico from a crate on the floor. Harrison and Ridley grabbed Yeager and wrestled him onto the bar. He stood and swayed and they toasted him three times.
It was nearly two. Yeager and Ridley were head-to-head across a table in a shot contest, slowly downing then inverting their glasses in turn. Pancho refereed, calling odds, collecting money. More glasses were empty than full. Harrison cheered and wondered where his wife was. He knocked back his scotch, put down his glass and searched her out.
He found her outside, sat on the steps of the veranda, drinking a warm beer.
There you are, Harrison said.
She looked up at him. Today is a good day, she said.
It is, he said.
It hurts, she said.
I know, he said.
Here. She tapped at her chest.
He sat down. She took a drink of her beer.
Plenty more good days comin, he said.
She offered him the bottle, he took a swig.
Why don’t you give Mac a call, see if he’s still got that pup? he said.
She looked at him. She nodded. She looked down at the dirt.
When I was a girl, she said, Daddy would take me out riding. Growing up on a ranch, horses were just how we lived; but it was different when he took me out. We’d be gone for the whole morning sometimes; other times longer. We’d ride out together, same horse; a beautiful brown mare he called Lightning—not for her speed, though she was no slouch; she’d been born in a storm. He’d give me the reins from time to time and sometimes we’d stop and fish or catch a jackrabbit to take home with us, but mostly we’d just ride, for the sake of riding. Can’t ride a horse without thinking about him. Warm breeze in your face, dirt kicking up behind. It felt good, just to ride.
He offered back the bottle; she shook her head. They sat together in silence, smoke curling away in the wind.
MOJAVE DESERT
MUROC, CALIFORNIA
JANUARY 1959
The blanched beans steamed thin trails that coiled up from a pan in the sink. She watched them twist slowly, the desert flat and wild and wide out the window behind. For a moment, the steam seemed to rise up from the sagebrush itself; a column of smoke. She looked down at the floor, and gripped the edge of the sink.
Shit, she said. Shit shit shit.
Grace shut her eyes and stood still, heart lilting in her chest. She left the beans in the sink and walked out of the kitchen.
Milo! she said. Milo!
The dog ran to her from the sofa.
Good boy, she said. Let’s take a walk.
She dried her hands on the back of her jeans and pulled on her boots.
It was eleven and the mountains shimmered in the distance. The sun scolded the sky steel blue; orange gleams snagged the underside of gaunt clouds high in the thin air. She walked across the hardpan, away from the house. Milo ran ahead, darting between the black Joshua trees. She whistled and he returned to her side, nuzzling her legs. She pushed her fingers into his hair.
All right, she said. The dog ran off again. She glanced up at the horizon toward the base. The sky was clear. They walked for an hour.
When they got back, she went to bed and slept. She did not dream. When she woke, she was not alone.
Jim? Is that you?
You’re awake.
When did you get in?
She sat up on her elbows, pulling the eiderdown to her chest.
You look so peaceful, he said, stroking her head.
How was the flight?
It was okay.
She turned on the bedside light.
Jesus, Jim—what happened to your eyes?
Same old; I’m fine.
Don’t give me that crap.
She got up on her knees, put hands either side of his face, looked into him.
It looks like someone’s gone at your eyeballs with a knife! she said. She sat back on her legs. You’ve been pulling heavy g’s. What happened?
Just a tight spot, hon, nothing to worry about.
Are you okay?
Got a little beat up. Guess my eyes got themselves a little bloodshot. I’ll live. I’m stiff right through though, so I’m gonna take a hot bath.
Grace sat on the edge of the bed in the half-light. Harrison removed his shirt and walked out to the bathroom.
Bud Anderson shot a bunch of ducks this morning, he said, said we could hav
e one if we want. Hon?
Sure, she said.
Great; I’ll bring it home tonight. Maybe make a stew or something?
Grace didn’t answer. In the bedroom, she rubbed her face, her neck, and pulled on her pants.
Any chance you could fix me up a cheese sandwich or something quick? I got to be back at base for a debrief at three.
Planning on eating it in the bath? she said.
Can I?
She appeared at the bathroom door. He was in the tub, soaking. The old pipes banged behind the wall.
My mother always said there was no place for food in the bathroom, she said.
Your mother said a lot of stuff.
You should have heard what she said about you.
We used to talk a lot about fishing, he said. Woman loved to fish.
Grace looked down at her husband, half-submerged, skin brown and smooth and wrinkled from the beating it took from the desert sun day after day. His ears were pink from the hot water. All she could think was how vulnerable he seemed; this mass of flesh and hair she loved so deeply, floating naked in the bath. There was a small cut on his face, above his left eye, near the hairline. He moved in the bath, exposing his shoulder. It was yellow.
Your shoulder, she said.
Dinged it pretty bad, he said. Hurts like hell.
She knelt beside the tub and ran her fingers across the bruising. She kissed it.
Head’s pretty sore too, he said.
She pushed her lips to his forehead.
And here, he said, pointing at his lips.
She leaned in and kissed him.
I’ll make your sandwich, she said, but you’re eating it downstairs.
Later that afternoon, when Harrison had gone back to work, she put Milo in the car and drove to Rosamond, twenty miles west of the base, and pulled up outside the First Baptist Church. It was a small building with alabaster walls and a domed bell tower. A single Joshua tree stood outside next to the veranda, its crooked arms reaching skyward like a penitent sinner. The engine idled. She drummed her hands on the wheel.
C’mon, she said, and turned off the engine.
She tied Milo to the corner of the veranda.
I’ll be back in a minute, she said.
Inside was gloomy and cool. A lone figure sat hunched at a wooden table in the northeast corner, sunlight falling on a smooth head of Brylcreem from a small window cut high in the wall above him. He looked up when he heard the door close, hair gleaming white in the gloom.
Grace, he said as she approached him, this is a pleasant surprise. He rose and walked over to greet her.
Good afternoon, Reverend Irving, she said. I hope you don’t mind me—
Not at all, not at all, he said, please, come in.
I was just passing by and I thought I’d stop in, see how Virginia Allen was doing.
You’re very kind, he said. She’s bearing up. Her fever peaked over Christmas; the doctor says that’s the worst of it. She needs to rest now, rest and eat. We miss her on a Sunday.
You’ll tell her I stopped by? She’s such a sweet old lady.
Of course, she’ll be delighted. Thank you.
I’d better get going, she said. Milo’s outside.
It’s good of you to stop in. Milo’s your son?
My dog, she said. Milo’s my dog. Tied up, out front.
Ah, he said, well. It’s good to see you, Grace. God bless. You’re always welcome.
She thanked him and left, the cold air slugging her like a gang of thugs as she stepped outside; Milo, whimpering, pressed his body against the dirt.
The next day was a Thursday. It was a quarter before ten and she was alone in the house. Milo’s paws clicked on the hard linoleum of the kitchen floor as she pulled laundry into a basket to hang outside.
What’s the matter, boy? she said. You been poking about all morning.
The dog paced the room. Grace glanced up at the clock. She carried on with the laundry, folding and smoothing the sheets, ignoring the forty-five-minute chasm between when Jim said he’d be home and what the clock now read. Three words were trying to get her attention, like a small child. Something has happened. She folded and smoothed. She could recall the entire conversation. She was used to conversations at five in the morning. He dressed for work, she lay in bed. He would be home by nine.
Fold and smooth. The house was silent and still; slowly, the chasm grew. She listened. She listened for a car turning off the main highway. She listened for the wail of a siren. She listened for the telephone. No one had called. The other wives; there would be calls. A collective assimilation of information and, one by one, elimination of their husbands’ names: a grim game of chance. Something has happened. The silent telephone was good. Unless it was very bad. She knew the procedures; they all did. In the event of Something Having Happened, a strict protocol was swiftly adhered to. No information pertaining to the freshly deceased would be released until the man’s wife—widow—was informed, in person, by an appropriate party; a superior officer, a comrade or, often, the base’s chaplin. The chosen messenger would advance slowly upon the departed’s front door, headwear stowed beneath the left arm, face set in a way that spoke the news, the words that followed a horrible formality. The man would close the front door behind him. He would assist the crumpled woman to a place of comfort. He would leave. Grace stared at the telephone. The sky was silent.
There was a hard knock on the door.
She felt nothing; just a distant confusion: in her nightmares, it was always a doorbell. It occurred to her, for the first time, that they had no doorbell. She wanted to shout, but had no voice. Instead, she watched a phantom arm, her arm, reach out from her unfamiliar body and push open the door.
Mornin, Mrs. Harrison! Oh, you look terrible. Are you okay?
Dougie, she said.
What’s happened?
She stared at him. He was wearing a light blue shirt with short sleeves. Under his arm he carried a package.
I’m fine, she heard herself saying.
You sure? You don’t look right, if you don’t mind me sayin.
I must have stood up too quick, got a little dizzy.
Well, so long as you’re sure … Got a package for you—Jim, actually. Damn heavy, glad you’re in. Didn’t much fancy lugging it back.
He lowered the box gently to the ground.
Where do you want it?
There’s fine.
She felt sick. She held the doorframe.
Hey Milo, Dougie said.
The dog ran outside.
Well, guess I’ll be seein you, Mrs. Harrison. Don’t be movin that yourself.
He smiled. She thanked him and shut the door. In the kitchen, she made up a little hot milk, with a measure of bourbon and a spoon of sugar, and sat down at the kitchen table to drink it. Then she cried. Four sharp sobs. She stopped herself, wiping her eyes with the palm of her right hand. Her husband was still missing. Milo stalked the yard in circles. She stood at the window and watched him. She glanced at the telephone again, then walked over and dialed the base. The duty officer answered.
This is Grace Harrison, she said. I want to speak to Captain Harrison please.
That’s not something—
Please, she said, surprising herself. I want to speak to my husband.
I—
It’s very important.
Her voice was beginning to break apart.
Let me see what I can do, he said. The voice rung off.
Hello? she said.
Yeah? a third voice said.
Jack? Grace said.
Who’s this? Jack said.
Jack, it’s me, it’s Grace.
Gracie? Are you okay?
I know I’m not supposed to call the base—and I never have, not once, in ten, twelve years—but, Jack, have you seen Jim? He told me he’d—is he—
Why, he’s right here, Grace—hang on.
Jim?
Gracie?
Jim.
Hon,
what’s the matter?
Nothing, nothing’s the matter. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have called.
Hey, it’s okay, he said, slow down and tell me what’s goin on.
It’s me, I’m sorry, nothing’s going on, it’s just … you said you’d be home at nine, and I know you were taking up a Starfighter this morning and after … what happened to Kinch … I hate that damn plane.
Honey, honey, it’s okay. Jack needed my help on this profile. Said I’d be home closer to eleven, remember?
I—no?
When I was looking for my watch.
I must have dozed off … goddamn it.
It’s okay.
It’s not.
Honey—
I’ve made myself half mad with worry this morning. What’s wrong with me? I’m so embarrassed.
Gracie, hon, don’t even fret on it. Air force pays my wage, trains me to wear the Blue Suit, but they don’t do a damn thing to train the wife of a Blue Suiter. You’re doing just fine. Look, I’m just about done here. I’ll head back now.
No, no, it’s okay, stay; Jack needs you. I’m going to get out, take Milo for a walk or something. I need to clear my head.
Well, okay, as long as you’re all right?
I am now.
Okay then.
I’ll see you later.
You bet.
Okay.
He rang off. It was nine fifty-five. Grace put Milo in the car and drove to Rosamond.
The hardware store was the only place they could get dog food. Charlie Anderson used to sell it, but Charlie was dead, tuberculosis, and his store, hundred and sixty acre homestead, and the town of Muroc itself, had been bought up by the air force and dismantled to make room for the expanding base, renamed Edwards, after Glen Edwards, who augered in testing a prototype jet-powered heavy bomber called the Flying Wing that had the look and aerodynamics of a banana.
After she’d bought the dog food and hauled it out to the car, she leaned against the door and lit a smoke and the metal against her back felt hotter than the burning cigarette tip flaring orange sending smoke twisting away in a sinewy line that her eyes followed; the thin column turning and rising. Her hand trembled and a brittle ashen hulk broke off and fell to the ground. She stared at the charred lump at her feet. Burned Beyond Recognition. That’s what they called it when a human body was exposed to the intense heat of combusting aviation fuel. Her heart hammered hard inside her. She dropped what was left of the cigarette, pulled Milo from the car and started up Main Street.
The Last Pilot: A Novel Page 5
