Great idea, Conrad said.
They sat and drank and watched five other men experience the same confusion they had at the reception desk. As each man left with his key, the group would holler and cheer and the new arrival would look up, smile, shake his head and walk over. Harrison knew Frank Borman, Tom Stafford and Jim McDivitt; all flight test instructors at Edwards. He shook their hands and introduced them to the others. Ed White came over. He was tall, athletic; a West Pointer with a generous grin. He’d been doing all-weather testing at Wright-Patterson. Harrison only knew him by name.
Eight down, one to go, Lovell said.
The men ordered another round of drinks and then Harrison stood up as a short man with a wry smile approached the group.
Neil, you sly dog, Harrison said, shaking his hand and laughing.
Damn, Neil said. I was a week in San Antonio for those tests and a week here at Ellington for assessment and I didn’t see you once!
They must’ve staggered us, Harrison said.
Two X-15 pilots? Conrad said. We are truly blessed.
I guess this is us, then, huh? Borman said, looking round.
Guess so, Harrison said.
Not bad, Conrad said. Not bad at all.
The next morning they traveled to Ellington Air Force Base, close to where the vast Manned Spacecraft Center was rapidly being constructed on the thousand acres of murky scrubland at the edge of Clear Lake. Deke wanted them to meet the NASA brass. The men made their way to the large hall where the meeting was supposed to take place.
Jim, Deke said as the men entered.
Deke, he said, shaking his hand.
The hall had no windows and the light was poor. There were two suited men standing and talking together on the far side who looked up and began to walk toward them.
Glad you could make it down, Deke said.
Well, it’s good to be here, Deke, Harrison said. How’s Marge?
She’s good thanks, good. Gentlemen, welcome, Deke said to the others. I’ll be with you in just a minute. He turned back to Harrison.
Listen, I’m sorry we didn’t get the chance to chat more, you know, back in December.
Oh, sure, Deke, Harrison said. Thanks.
Deke slapped his shoulder. Sure good to have you here, he said.
Harrison nodded.
Okay, gentlemen, Deke said, as the two suited men joined him, good morning. We’ve got a lot to cover today so I’m just gonna get straight on with it. You know me and I sure as hell know more than I’d like to about you after all them tests.
The men laughed.
First I’ll introduce you to Walt Williams, head of Flight Operations, who some of you may already know, and Bob Gilruth, director of the Manned Spacecraft Center, who headed up the original Space Task Group for Mercury. They’ll be plenty of missions for you all. We got eleven manned Gemini flights on the schedules, followed by at least four Block I Apollos, which will lead to a number of Block II Apollo missions—one of which will attempt the first lunar landing. You’re no doubt aware, from observing the boys who have already gone up—
And those that haven’t, Gilruth chipped in.
Yeah, Deke said, yeah; them too—that you’ll receive a great deal more attention than, uh, you’ve been used to in the flight test business. I know you don’t like it, I know you don’t want it, but I also know by the fact you’re here today that you’re willing to put up with it in order to achieve our goals. Now there’ll be plenty of pressure and temptation, no doubt about that. Be careful about accepting gifts, freebies, that kinda thing, especially from companies competing for contracts. And with regard to gratuities, if you have any doubt, just follow the old test pilot’s creed: anything you can eat, drink or screw within twenty-four hours is perfectly acceptable.
The men laughed and Gilruth shook his head and Williams said, within reason, within reason!
I’m gonna hand you over to Shorty Powers now, our public affairs officer, Deke said. He’s gonna brief you on the press conference later. And you’ll remember from mine how much I hate press conferences. This time we got the University of Houston’s Cullen Auditorium. There’ll be reporters, crews from all the television networks, radio, the wire, plus national and international newspapers and magazines. There’s eighteen hundred seats in that auditorium and every one of em will be taken. The world is waiting to see who America’s new astronauts are. Keep your answers brief, obvious, and impersonal, like good pilots. We already have, he said with a smile, one John Glenn, and God knows that’s enough. You’ll meet Chris Kraft and George Low later but, for now, here’s Shorty.
Deke looked around.
Shorty? he said again.
He’s on his way, Williams said.
Okay, Deke said. Any problems, talk to me. I got your backs. And we’ll need you down at the Cape October third for Wally’s launch, so mark it off in your schedules.
The doors banged and a small balding man appeared in the gloom.
Shorty, Deke said. Jesus Christ. Come on, or we’ll never get to the goddamn moon.
Harrison flew back to Edwards that night. He’d hated every minute of the press conference. So had the others. But they answered the questions, posed for photographs. Then they got the hell out.
He landed on the main runway. He felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt good. After he got changed, he drove home. Grace was asleep on the sofa when he walked through the door. She stirred when she heard him.
Hey, you’re back, she said, half asleep.
He dropped his bag on the floor.
I didn’t mean to wake you, he said.
No, it’s okay, she said. She stretched. I was waiting up. I must have fallen asleep.
She sat up and yawned.
Where’s Milo? he said.
Upstairs, she said. At least, he was. How was it?
He smiled.
What’s the matter? she said.
Nothing. How was your day?
Dull, she said. Cleaned the house all morning, then took Milo to Rosamond for groceries. Hey, I ran into Megan Blackman; she was really odd with me.
What’d she do? he said, walking around the sofa to see her.
Nothing really, Grace said. She was just … she just made a big fuss over me, and said something like, eight years was plenty enough and to give you her best. And she had this weird smile the whole time. How many times have you spoken to her before? Twice? Maybe three times? And Milo was tugging at the damn leash the whole time, she said.
He sat down next to her. Listen, he said. I got some news.
What? she said.
Pack your bags, he said.
What? Why?
We’re moving.
Moving? she said. What? Where to?
Houston, he said.
HOUSTON,
TEXAS
1962
Clear Lake was not a lake. Or clear. It looked murky, but Grace figured Murky Lake didn’t have the same appeal. Still. It looked pretty. From a distance. Lots of green. So much green. Trees, too. Trees and green and the murky clear lake. The air was a different kind of hot. It didn’t dry out the back of your throat. It had weight behind it. Moisture. The Texan sun was more forgiving; a kind aunt instead of a stern mother. And who could argue with the house? After so many years in their tiny timber ranch house, with its clanky, spurting taps and shit-brown water and splitting wooden walls, and the dust, this was like … she didn’t know what it was like. She’d never seen anything like it.
The house was in Timber Cove, a new development close to Murky Lake and the Manned Spacecraft Center that was emerging in gray cubes from the ground. The Original Seven astronauts, as people were now calling them—the fellas—settled here first, picking out lots, their wives choosing their own kitchens. The streets were tidy. Pine and oak trees shaded the sidewalks from the hot sun.
The week following the press conference, members of the New Nine—as they were now being called—flew down to Houston to pick out lots of their
own. Grace had known all about the deal that the Original Seven cut with Life; she’d read the personal pieces (ghosted, naturally) by the astronauts and their wives. Exclusive rights to their stories; half a million bucks between them. And Leo DeOrsey, the lawyer that NASA had turned to for advice, refused to take a fee, or even be reimbursed for his expenses! It was a new kind of crazy. After she’d settled down and taken in the news that Jim had hit her with, after that, her mind had found itself thinking about such things—compensations—the goodies—but she simply couldn’t believe that this particularly fat goose, Life magazine, would ever lay another egg, even a silver one. She was wrong. An agent was immediately found for them, the Nine, an ad exec from Philly called Harry Batten. Grace liked Harry from their first meeting. He was thin and tall and dressed in a variety of gray suits cut so precisely she could hardly believe he could move. He laughed loud, and he laughed a lot. And he got them their own Life deal. Split nine ways this time, sure, but she wasn’t about to complain. After years on the pay of an air force captain, it was hard to take in. It hadn’t stopped there, either. The Timber Cove developers, so eager to have astronauts living in their homes, offered large mortgages with practically no interest and proposed they custom-build the houses to whatever specifications they wanted.
Timber Cove was becoming an astronaut village; the wider area a NASA community. The Harrisons lived next door to the Lovells, around the corner from the Whites and the Glenns. Everyone was a short walk away. She felt safe. The sadness she felt at leaving the high desert (and she wasn’t about to pretend to herself or her husband or anyone else for that matter—Life deal or no Life deal—that she didn’t ache with sadness) had just been buried under a mudslide of good fortune, of goodies.
There were times, like that morning, when she felt physically dizzy; a kind of emotional vertigo. On those occasions, she’d walked down to Clear Lake and gaze at the horizon. She felt deep comfort at the space; the absence of everything but the gloomy rippled surface of the water and the blue sky banking overhead. She didn’t even take Milo. She wanted to be alone. It was in those moments that she allowed herself to think about Florence. At home, and everywhere else, she could think of nothing but her. However, staring across the filthy lake, a silty fug of oil from the refinery across the bay thickening the hot air, there, she was able to consciously, deliberately—tenderly—think about her daughter. Silent tears would fall like carnival ribbons and she’d think, how—how—did something that had only been in her life for two years, something that hadn’t even existed for the first thirty years of her life, how did the loss of this … this … thing destroy so much? She’d carried her, nurtured her, given her life, then brought her into the world, which had then slowly killed her. She hated the world for what it had done. The earth, the soil under her feet, everything. It could all go to hell. She couldn’t escape it. It was everywhere. She was part of it. It was her. She would look into the murk and want to drown. She would slide down onto the grass and cry. She’d cry for her daughter, lost, and she’d cry for the thoughts she had in her head. And when the emotion passed, and it always did, she felt exhausted, but, somehow, better. The sun was still warm. The horizon constant. There was so much sky. She’d think about the program. What they were trying to achieve. So many people. So many people. And how she was part of that now.
Back at the house, in the kitchen, she ran her fingers along the cool smooth surface of the countertop. She had an integrated blender, a Thermador double oven, a double sink, a dishwasher. Across a wide breakfast bar was a combined living and family room, with paneled walls, stone hearth and a high cathedral ceiling with beams. There was a separate dining room with floor-to-ceiling glass that looked out over an abundant garden with a patio area and swimming pool. Upstairs were three bedrooms and a study. She’d argued with the draftsmen about the bedrooms. We only need one bedroom, she’d said, plus a guest room. He told her that it would be foolish not to have a third bedroom when it came to reselling. With the layout you’ve chosen for the ground floor, he said, adding one wouldn’t even be a problem. And a lot of folks looking round here will have children. Tired, she’d relented. Now, it was an empty hole howling above her head. She poured a glass of cold Coke and sat outside on the patio. The chairs and table were new. Almost all of their furniture was new. They’d hardly taken anything from the old house. It was all too decrepit, too small, so they’d left it. It was cheaper and easier that way. The air force had yet to lease the house, so they could return for anything if they wanted. They’d left so fast. So little time to say good-bye. That was military life though. Pancho was pretty beat up about it. She never said so; someone like Pancho didn’t need to. She was pissed at Jim. She couldn’t figure out why he’d want to throw away the Blue Suit to sit in a tin can. She had this phrase, chimp mode, whenever she talked about him. So, Pancho would say when Grace called her from Houston, is he in chimp mode today? Meaning, was Jim testing the new systems. It rankled her, but Grace knew Pancho was hurting. She could barely look Jim in the eye when they’d gone over to say good-bye. The telephone helped, but there was something about not being in the same place. You moved on; that was it. This time Grace felt different though. She felt tethered. She felt sick when she thought of her little girl all alone in that cemetery. She felt black.
Oh, God.
She stood up quickly and walked around the garden. She was barefoot and the grass felt cool where it had been shaded from the morning sun. The garden was planted up and alive. Deep greens, yellow, indigo-blue. Enclosing it was a wooden fence that ran the length of the house’s rear perimeter. The wood was stained light brown. At the back of the garden, parts of the fence were still exposed where the plants hadn’t yet thickened out. The fence was six feet high. She stood looking at it for a long time. She reached out her hand and touched it. Then she went back inside.
Grace sat on the sofa and read for an hour. She grew restless. Milo was asleep in the sun upstairs. She collared him, found her sunglasses and headed out again. She thought about calling on Marilyn Lovell next door. She liked Marilyn, and their husbands got along well. Not that either of them were ever around. Deke had been working them hard from the get-go. Wally—Jo Schirra’s husband—and the rest of the Mercury boys were concentrating on the next flight, scheduled to launch in a few weeks time, and the New Nine (she already hated the name) were learning as much as they could about Project Gemini. Jim would leave the house early and arrive home, exhausted, late. They were working out of rented offices in the Farnsworth-Chambers Building downtown, since the Manned Spacecraft Center was still being built. There was something about the speed that everything was happening at. It unsettled her.
Milo pulled on the leash. Grace felt sorry for him. He’d never had to wear one before. He wasn’t used to the cars, or the intricacies of a suburban neighborhood. He pulled her on. Maybe, she thought, she might bump into one of the other wives. Annie had been so sweet to her, and Pat kind. The others she wasn’t so sure about. She’d picked up on a strange hostility from the Original wives. Did they think she didn’t deserve to be in Timber Cove? That they weren’t entitled to their slice of the Life pie? Marge Slayton had organized a lunch for them not long after the Nine had arrived in Houston. It had been oddly tense. As though the Mercury wives resented these nine rookies and rankled at their attitude, like an older sister punishing her younger sibling for simply arriving and benefiting from her hard-earned privileges. Grace understood the pecking order. God knows she’d been a military wife for long enough. Unofficially, the wives rose in rank with their husbands. Living somewhere as remote and godforsaken as Muroc in the early days, it wasn’t something she’d really encountered. Hell, if you were living on some desert outpost to God knows what, who really gave a damn? But then, she knew she wasn’t like the others, and Jim was more than a cut above the pilots who’d been selected for the first monkey shots. The boys at Edwards were an elite few. And the other wives knew it. Marge was trying, with Susan Borman, to formulate the equi
valent of the Officer’s Wives Club for them in Timber Cove.
Coffee, every month, Marge said. We’ll rotate homes. And we’ll call it the AWC.
None of the other wives needed to ask what the A stood for; like their husbands, nobody uttered the word itself. Grace had picked up on the code early on. It was always the men, or the boys, or the fellas. Grace had neither the time nor the patience for the kind of organized horseshit that came with the service. All the other wives wanted to talk about was Jackie’s wardrobe, or how Jackie wore her hair at such-and-such occasion. Grace didn’t give a damn. And over that first coffee, when she dropped cigarette ash on Marge’s new shag-pile rug and said, goddamn it, the others looked at her like she was trash. Jeez Louise, she’d thought. Was this really her world now? Jan was different though. Neil was a civilian and had been flying for NASA so they didn’t follow the same rules. She liked Jan. But Grace was used to being alone and that’s the way she wanted to keep it. She wasn’t planning on attending many of the AWC meetings.
At the corner of Shorewood and Whispering Oaks she paused and lit a cigarette. Then she walked back down to the edge of Clear Lake.
Grace sat opposite Marilyn at the Lovell kitchen counter drinking coffee. She hadn’t spent long at Clear Lake.
I promise, she said.
Marilyn was slender and tall with black hair that erupted from her head in dark curls twisted into a beehive. She tapped her cigarette into a glass ashtray on the countertop and leaned forward.
I’m pregnant, she said.
Pregnant? Grace said, putting down her mug. I—wow—that’s, uh—goodness, congratulations. Sorry. You just caught me by surprise.
You’re not the only one caught by surprise, Marilyn said.
That’s wonderful news, Grace said, it really is.
Yes, it is, she said, but with three monsters already—well, two; my eldest is practically—honey? Marilyn said, breaking off.
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