Harrison nodded. The janitor disappeared, lost in the long lines of intersecting hallways. Lapitus started to walk again. Harrison followed, in silence. After a few minutes, he said, where we headed? Lapitus took a sharp left, pushed through a set of heavy double doors and said, where we started. They stopped in front of a single door and Harrison looked at it.
I find it better to talk about things on the move, Lapitus said. You’re both welcome to see her as much as you like this week. Come and go as you please.
Thank you, Harrison said.
Lapitus put his hand on the door handle and looked at him. Harrison nodded. Lapitus opened the door.
Florence was asleep. They stood around her bed.
So, Lapitus said, we’ll start her on two thousand three hundred roentgens—that’s the maximum, the highest amount.
Is it painful? Grace said. I mean, will it—hurt her?
No, not at all, Lapitus said. She’ll just have to keep still.
Okay, Grace said.
Each session will last between fifteen and thirty minutes, Lapitus said. They’ll get shorter as we progress. And most of that time will be us making sure we aim correctly. We have to be precise, to avoid delivering radiation to the surrounding healthy brain tissue.
Grace looked at Harrison.
I’d wake her soon, so we can start, Lapitus said.
Do you have any water? Grace said.
I’ll get Clara to bring you some, Lapitus said.
Thank you.
You’re very welcome. I’ll leave you alone for a bit now.
Lapitus smiled and left. They watched their child sleep.
In the motel that night they pushed their clothes into shallow drawers in silence. Grace went into the bathroom. Harrison sat on the edge of the bed, took out his cigarettes, lit one. He tossed the pack onto the bed and sat forward and rubbed his face. He stood and walked to the window. He walked back to the bed and sat down and stared at the wall for a long time. The motel was quiet. He wondered about the time. Then he heard a noise from the bathroom, halfway between a laugh and a shout. At the door, he said, hon? She didn’t reply. He pushed at the door. Grace sat on the toilet seat, half undressed, fingers clutching her face, crying. He pulled her head to his body and held her.
In bed, Grace said, what are you not telling me? He lay on his back, heart held taut behind his ribs. Nothing, he said.
Did Lapitus say something to you? she said.
He could make out her face, pale in the gloom. He thought about the hundreds of variables that made it beautiful to him, as though it was a cipher, the sharp edge of a key. She switched on her bedside lamp.
Jim? she said.
Yeah, he said. Lapitus talked to me.
When?
Out in the hall. Took me for a walk.
Tell me what he said, she said.
She did real good today, he said.
Jim, please.
He sat up and looked at her.
Lapitus told me the radiation will make her better, but after a while, maybe a few months, she’ll likely get worse again, and quickly.
You mean we’ll have to do this over again? she said.
He shook his head.
What do you mean? Why not?
Not an option.
Why not?
Just isn’t.
There’s other things they can do, right? Other treatments?
There aren’t many options.
But there are options, right? Jim?
There’s one.
Just one?
He nodded.
Well what is it? she said.
Cobalt, he said.
What’s that?
It’s new, a real breakthrough, apparently.
Okay, that sounds good; that sounds promising.
Yeah.
What’s the matter? Can’t we use it?
He paused.
No, he said, we can use it.
What’s the problem then? she said.
He sighed.
Seems cobalt’s pretty effective at killin cancer cells; only trouble is, it kills the healthy ones too.
The healthy cells?
Yeah.
It could damage her? she said.
He nodded.
Badly?
He nodded again, then shut his eyes, and opened them again.
Lapitus isn’t sure her body could take it, he said.
Oh God, Jim.
Don’t, he said.
Don’t what?
Just—
He got out of bed.
What are you doing? she said, sitting up.
He went into the bathroom and locked the door. At the sink, he ran the tap cold, scooped his hands beneath the surface and put his face into the water. He pushed his fingers into his hair and turned and sat on the toilet. His elbows dug holes in his knees and he shut his eyes. He could hear her sobbing in the bedroom. He felt sick. He went out and held her. After a while, she said, she handled it all so well.
Yes, he said, she did.
Our girl.
Our girl.
She’s tough, Jim; she’s got so much spirit, so much fight in her.
It doesn’t matter, hon, he said, gently.
She’s not like other kids; of course it matters.
It doesn’t matter.
Stop saying that, would you? She’s a fighter, she can beat this.
No, he said. She can’t.
Grace stood up, her eyes silver in the low light.
Stop it! she said. Jesus Christ! Just shut up, would you? Just shut up!
Grace—
What the fuck is wrong with you? She will beat this.
No, honey, she won’t, he said. He looked at the floor. She’ll be dead by Christmas.
They slept fitfully. A glittering darkness pervaded their dreams. Harrison stood outside a house. Men were working on it. He recognized it as the house he’d lived in as a boy. He felt excitement. One of the men said, you want to look inside? He nodded. The door opened. Inside, in vivid detail, he saw things from the first years of his life. A clock. A vase. A chair. A painting. He didn’t realize, until then, that he’d remembered them. And he felt a terrible ache inside him. And he cried with nostalgia, and he cried with joy, and he woke, and there were no tears on his face, and his eyes were dry. Grace murmured next to him. He breathed hard into the silence. He held on to his sleep, and disappeared again.
At the end of the week the nurses brought Florence a cake and hung red balloons above her bed and everyone sang Happy Birthday and Florence blew out two tall candles and they all clapped.
Happy birthday, sweetheart, Grace said.
Thanks for doing this, Harrison said to Clara.
My pleasure, Clara said. She’s so sweet.
The other nurses smiled and Lapitus came in and said, what’d I miss?
My birthday! Florence said. I got two candles.
So you did, he said. And this is for you.
He handed her a wrapped package. Happy birthday, he said.
Mommy I got a present! she said.
Yes you did, Grace said. What do you say?
Thank you, Florence said.
To Doctor Lapitus.
Thank you, Florence said to Lapitus.
You’re very welcome, Lapitus said.
Are you going to open it? Grace said.
Inside was a cotton head scarf, patterned with yellow, pink and red flowers.
Thank you, Grace said to Lapitus.
He smiled and said, now, you’ll have to excuse me, I have rounds to do.
Thanks, doc, Harrison said.
Lapitus left. Grace helped her daughter with the head scarf. The X-rays had left Florence with a large bald spot beneath her crown.
Just what you need, Duck, Grace said.
Anyone want a drink? Harrison said.
You going down to the lounge? Grace said.
Yeah.
I could use a coffee.
Sure thing.
Ladies?
he said to the nurses.
Thanks, but we’d better get on, Clara said.
The nurses wished Florence a happy birthday again and left.
Be back in a minute, Harrison said, and followed them out.
The lounge was on the first floor. He took the stairs. He could see the concrete floor of the basement, six stories below. He held on to the handrail and walked down. The lounge was full of people. They stood around a television set that had been wheeled in, black power cable curling through an open door nearby. Harrison frowned, walked over, stood at the back of the crowd next to an old man in a robe.
What’s goin on? Harrison said. The man turned and looked at him. Then he looked at his feet and walked away. Harrison frowned, turned to his left, where a surgeon in blue scrubs stood holding a coffee.
More riots? Harrison said.
The surgeon shook his head and said, no—Shepard.
Harrison shifted his feet and managed to see the screen.
This is incredible, the surgeon said. This is insane. I actually feel a little sick. He laughed.
How come?
I guess the excitement. Maybe the danger? I don’t know; we’re about to put the first American in space, stick it to the Reds, show them they can’t just take over the world. I wish I was down there, at Cape Canaveral, see it for myself. You see the rocket tests on TV?
Harrison lied, said he hadn’t.
Oh, boy, the surgeon said. Last month, the one on the pad right now, the Redstone, was supposed to put a dummy into orbit. Forty seconds after launch, it went crazy. They had to blow it up by remote control. Next one, three days later; thirty-three seconds. And last summer? When it exploded midflight? Worst was when they flew all those VIPS down. When the countdown reached zero, nothing happened. The Redstone just gave out a little groan. Didn’t move. Then the escape tower popped off the top and floated down under this little white parachute and plopped into the Banana River. Boy oh boy, what a joke. I bet they wet their pants in Moscow over that. Remember Kaputnik? And that was only a satellite! I mean, you must have seen them?
Harrison shook his head.
That is one brave sonofabitch, the surgeon said.
The television showed a live feed from the pad: the Redstone rocket, the tiny Mercury capsule perched on top; behind it, an infinite blue, the odd seagull.
He’s sitting right on top of that thing, the surgeon said. Risking his life. For us. What the hell do you think goes through the mind of a man at a time like this?
It wasn’t blowing up, Harrison thought. It was fucking up.
Who the hell knows, he said.
In the chaos of the last week, he’d forgotten about the planned launch of Freedom 7, the first manned flight of NASA’s Mercury/Redstone program. He’d watched the ape, Ham, go up in January, flip his switches, splash down in the Pacific. A great crowd had gathered at Edwards to watch it on the small black-and-white television in Bob White’s office. The men were in good spirits, watching little Ham do his job. They cheered when his chutes opened and clapped at his splashdown. Little Ham; a monkey; the historic first flight. Project Mercury was a circus stunt, no two ways about it.
On the television, Cronkite was broadcasting at the Cape from the back of a station wagon. The countdown had been stopped several times already.
Four hours, Cronkite said, four hours since Shepard was inserted into the capsule. We have another hold at T minus six—that’s six minutes before the completion of the launch sequence; we have a hold.
Harrison watched with the surgeon as more people gathered around the television. They could hear, as Cronkite could, the clipped words of the engineers in the blockhouse; the radio static an electromagnetic conduit for their collective anxiety. No one wanted to be responsible for killing America’s first astronaut. The countdown began again. The Redstone, tall and slender and filled with liquid oxygen, rumbled and squealed on the pad.
Jesus, the surgeon said.
T minus two minutes and forty seconds; that’s another hold, Cronkite said.
More chatter on the loop. Now the Redstone’s fuel pressure was running high.
They could be about to call an abort, Cronkite said. The pressure valve in the booster might need to be reset manually. That would delay the mission for at least another two days.
On the loop, the engineers chattered and fussed. Shepard lost patience. His voice cut in; the voice of the pilot.
All right, I’m cooler than you are. Why don’t you fix your little problem and light this candle!
Harrison smiled, the surgeon leaned in and the audience began to vibrate as the engineers each declared their systems GO and the candle was lit and the rumbling Redstone howled like a beaten animal until it cleared the tower and fired Alan B. Shepard Jr.—naval aviator, test pilot, husband, father of three—off the face of the Earth. Harrison looked at the surgeon; there were tears in his eyes. In the lounge, the audience cheered and the surgeon clapped and Harrison took out a cigarette and lit it and shook out the match.
Fifteen minutes later, it was over. Freedom 7 dropped into the cold Atlantic like a stone. Shortly after, Shepard was heaved aboard the aircraft carrier Lake Champlain. The audience applauded. Harrison chuckled, cigarette dangling from his lips, and clapped. Shepard stood on the deck and waved. The surgeon turned his head and said, where do we get such men?
Back in the room, Harrison sat, drinking his coffee.
I can’t believe I missed it! Grace said.
There wasn’t much to see, Harrison said.
Maybe not for you—
Or him.
But for the rest of us.
Honestly, you didn’t miss much.
Is he in space now? Florence said, from her bed.
No, honey, Harrison said. It was just a suborbital ballistic lob—a little ride, Duck—he’s home now.
Is he in space?
No, sweetheart. He isn’t.
I want to go to space.
You, my little Flo-Flo, Grace said, need to rest.
I don’t want to rest, Florence said.
It’s been a long week, Duck, Harrison said.
Can we go home? Florence said.
Yes, he said. In the morning.
Okay, she said.
Grace smiled and stroked her forehead until she fell asleep. That night, in the motel, Grace said, I’m scared, Jim, and Harrison said, everything will be okay.
They left Los Angeles early. It was Saturday.
Grace carried Florence up the stairs when they got home.
At around two, Pancho stopped by.
Aunt Pancho! Florence said when Harrison brought her down.
Hey, kiddo, good to see you, Pancho said. I heard you done real good at the hospital.
I was at the hospital, said Florence. There was a doctor and Daddy bought me an ice cream.
I’ll bet he did, Pancho said. I’m gonna cook you up some sausages. You still like sausages, don’t you?
I like sausages, she said.
Good, cause I invited a few people over.
Grace decided not to stress. An hour later, the garden was full and Pancho stood in a cloud of hot smoke and put raw meat on the grill and piled it onto a plate when it was cooked. Joe Walker, who couldn’t make the party, buzzed the house in a F-104, flying so low and so fast that it shook the glass in the windows and caused a plate to fall off the sideboard and smash on the kitchen floor. Harrison carried his daughter around on one arm and held a bottle of beer in his spare hand. Florence still wasn’t able to walk. She wore the head scarf that Lapitus had given her. Grace stood outside and looked at the salad she’d made and considered making more.
Hello, Grace, a voice behind her said. She turned around.
Reverend Irving, she said. You—I wasn’t expecting you.
He smiled. I’m sorry, he said, I should have called ahead. Pancho told me what was going on when I visited the base last week. I’ve been praying for you all.
He was dressed in black and holding a bottle o
f beer.
No, no it’s fine, Grace said. I’m sorry, I was just—
Surprised to find me in your garden?
She smiled and nodded.
Have you had any salad? she said.
I have. It was good, he said.
Good.
It looks like she’s doing well, he said, looking over to where Florence was playing in the grass.
Who knows, she said.
And how are you? he said.
She looked at the sky curling overhead, a weak blue. It’s good to be home.
I’m sure, he said.
We’ve got another six weeks to go, she said. As an outpatient.
In Los Angeles?
She nodded. I’ll take her back during the week, stay down there, bring her home on weekends.
You have somewhere to stay?
A friend of Jim’s moved to Long Beach not too long ago. Said we could stay. Jim’s got to work.
How have things been?
She looked down at the salad bowl she was carrying.
I didn’t mean to—
No, it’s okay, she said, looking up. Better, thank you. Much better. Having Florence really turned things around. I don’t know why, but there you go.
Well, nothing never happens when we pray, he said.
I like that, she said.
He smiled.
Me too, he said.
Thank you, Reverend, she said. Really.
It was my pleasure, he said.
I’m going to—she held up the bowl.
Of course, of course!
She smiled and walked back to the house. The wind picked up. Irving finished his beer. He spotted Mel Apt’s wife, Faye, and her two children, and went over to speak to them.
Grace stood in the empty kitchen. The house was cool and quiet. She could hear Jim, outside, talking to someone about the X-15. She walked into the living room and sat down on the edge of the sofa, her arms around the salad bowl, and cried. She looked at the wall. Then she looked into the empty bowl. Then she stood and returned to the kitchen, fixed more salad and went back outside.
Harrison poured himself a black coffee and sat down. His body ached from the flight. He’d flown the X-15 just shy of Mach five. He wanted out of his pressure suit, but first he wanted a coffee. Ridley stepped in from the hangar.
Good flight, he said.
Sounded like someone was banging on the side of it with a goddamn hammer, Harrison said.
The Last Pilot: A Novel Page 12
