Analog SFF, May 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  She looked so pretty. Was I gonna say no? We both had a glass, and drank it there in the garage, using the hood of the mower as our table. It was probably the best iced tea I ever had.

  “So what do your folks do for a living?” she asked between sips.

  “They both work for an electronics company in San Antonio,” I answered. I almost asked her what she did for a living, but stopped myself. Women that beautiful probably didn't have to work for a living, and here she was, home in the middle of the day. “What does your husband do?” I asked.

  “He's an engineer. He's away on a long-term project right now, though.”

  “Hey, my dad's an electrical engineer,” I said. “What kind of project is your husband working on?”

  Mrs. Horton's mouth opened to speak, but then she caught herself. After a pause, she said, “I'd rather not say. It's sort of a secret.”

  I thought for a second about what kind of engineering projects were secret. It could be government work, some sort of espionage or weapons program, or it might be some overseas thing. Maybe something in the Middle East or an offshore rig. Whatever it was, if she wanted to keep it secret, that was all right by me. It wasn't her husband I cared about.

  “I understand,” I said, nodding my head like I knew something.

  “And what do you want to be when you grow up?” she asked.

  Ooh, that hurt. When you grow up. To her I was only a kid. I was a kid, but back then, fifteen felt pretty grown up to me. I'm sure I blushed, because she looked a bit startled, probably realizing she had hurt my feelings. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I meant when you get out of school.”

  “Well,” I said, “I think I want to be a pilot, and fly a spaceship, like the Romulus, only we'll probably be going to Europa or Ganymede instead of Mars by then.”

  Mrs. Horton looked surprised. “Are you following the Mars mission? I didn't think too many people were interested in the space program these days, since the first couple of landings.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “Being an astronaut has gotta be the best job in the whole world.”

  “Well, maybe not everyone thinks so,” she said. “Besides, the spaceships are all automated these days. They don't really have pilots anymore.”

  She probably thought I was just some starry-eyed dreamer, but I was serious. “Well, pilot or not, any kind of astronaut job would be just great for me,” I said. “I think they're heroes.”

  Mrs. Horton looked like she wanted to say something, but she just dazzled me with her sweet smile and poured me some more tea.

  “Davy, would you like to mow the lawn for me every week, as a regular job? My husband won't be back from his assignment for a while, and I just can't handle this mower by myself. You seem to know what you're doing and I'd rather have a friend do the job than hire some stranger.”

  She called me a friend. That beautiful woman called me a friend, the first one I had made in Seguin. Was I gonna say no?

  She paid me ten dollars for mowing her lawn that day. It was a bit low for a job like that, especially in that heat, but I didn't say anything. After all, the riding mower practically did all the work, and it was kind of fun riding it. And her iced tea really was the best. And then there was her.

  I would have done the job for free.

  * * * *

  A couple of months went by, and I learned that the heat in Texas in June barely hinted at how hot it would get by August. I mowed both our lawn and Mrs. Horton's all summer long, and drank a lot of iced tea in her garage. We chatted about the weather, the neighborhood, and Texas. She was originally from Minneapolis, and missed having a real winter. I hadn't been in Seguin long enough to see what a Texas winter was like yet, but we both shared our mutual homesickness.

  I also spent some time painting the ceiling of my bedroom. It took some arguing, but my parents relented and agreed to let me paint it flat black, and then decorate it with glow-in-the-dark stars. I even painted in a faint Milky Way diagonally across the room. The overhead lighting fixture in the center of the ceiling became the Sun, and I painted the planets in their proper orbits around it. Halfway between the Earth and Mars I taped a small picture of the Romulus that I had printed from my computer, and repositioned it each week to show it approaching the planet. Yeah, it was a geeky thing to do, but it kept me busy.

  Mrs. Horton was right about spaceships not needing pilots, and when I investigated the Space Agency's public information database, I learned that the crew of the Romulus, typical of the previous two Mars missions, included one geologist, one biochemist, and two flight engineers. The engineers were basically mechanics, to insure that the equipment worked for the duration of the two-year mission.

  I wasn't particularly good at biology or interested in rocks, so if I was going to become an astronaut, it would probably have to be as a flight engineer. It didn't sound nearly as exciting as “pilot,” but I was good with my hands, so it looked like I was going to be studying engineering, like my dad. And apparently, like my next-door neighbor.

  Since school hadn't started, I still hadn't made any friends in the neighborhood yet. Hardly anybody went outdoors in the summer heat, so I just didn't have any opportunity to meet anyone. As a result, Mrs. Horton became the sole relief from my monotonous life. I started mowing more often than once a week, and doing maintenance on her mower—cleaning it, sharpening the blades, changing the oil, plugs, and filters—just so I could see her again and share an iced tea more often. I was smitten with her.

  The rest of the week, when I wasn't watching the Mars Channel, I spent a lot of time peeking out of my window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her coming and going. I rarely saw her outside the house except for mowing days, and I never saw any visitors show up at her doorstep, so maybe she was lonely, too, what with her husband away so long.

  One morning, while I was sleeping in, I was awakened by a phone call from Mrs. Horton.

  “Davy, I need you to do a big favor for me,” she said. Her voice sounded a bit shaky on the other end of the phone. “I got called away unexpectedly, and I need someone to look after the house for a few days.”

  “Sure, Mrs. Horton, anything you want.”

  I would have painted the house if she'd asked me.

  “I have a house key hidden on the patio in back,” she said. “There's a big geranium pot on the far end, and the key is underneath it.”

  She was trusting me a lot. I felt proud of that. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Could you please take in the mail and make sure the water's not running? Maybe turn the air conditioning down a little—the thermostat is on the wall between the kitchen and the stairs. Oh, and water the houseplants in the breakfast nook and the foyer.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Is there anything more I can do? Is everything all right?”

  “There's been a little problem,” she said. “But I don't think it's too serious, now. I should be back in a few days. I'm sorry to hit you with this at the last minute, but I know I can count on you.”

  That made me feel proud. She was thinking of me as a friend, not just the kid next door. I wondered what sort of situation could have called her away. A medical emergency? A death in the family? But I didn't want to pry.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Horton,” I said. “I'm glad you're my friend.”

  “You're a good boy, Davy,” she said, and hung up the phone.

  Ouch, she still thought of me as a boy. But I still loved her. I would always love her.

  The key was right where she said it was, under the geranium pot. I took the mail out of the box and I let myself into the house through the back door, into the kitchen. The whole two months I was mowing her lawn, I had never been inside the house before.

  I glanced at the mail before leaving it on the island in the middle of the kitchen. There was a bill from the electric company, addressed to one Mr. Richard Keyes. Who was Richard Keyes? The name sounded familiar. There were a couple of pieces of junk mail made out to Rosemary Horton. Finally, t
here was a letter from Randolph AFB in San Antonio for one Col. Richard Keyes.

  Okay, Richard Keyes was her man, all right, but were they really married? She wore a wedding ring, but she didn't have the same last name. Perhaps there was still hope for me yet! Maybe she was just living with the guy—if he ever showed up, that was.

  And he was a colonel, presumably in the Air Force. That made some sense, since it might explain the secrecy. He was probably on some sort of military mission, and Mrs. Horton's saying he was an engineer was probably just a cover story. Maybe he was a spy.

  Mrs. Horton's house was mostly like my own, only a bit nicer and slightly larger. I turned the air conditioning down a bit, made sure the sinks and toilets weren't running, and watered the houseplants. I was so curious about Mrs. Horton that I just had to look around a bit.

  In the refrigerator was a pitcher of iced tea, ready to go. I almost took a glass, but thought better of it. She had trusted me with the key to her house. Was I breaking that trust by snooping? I decided to keep everything exactly as it was. But I couldn't help myself—I still looked.

  The kitchen seemed too orderly. The floor was spotless and the countertops neat and tidy. Only a single coffee cup in the sink gave any indication that someone lived there. The dining room looked like it had never been used—the dark cherry wood table shined as if it had been polished every day, and the six upholstered chairs looked as if they had never been sat in. Fancy museum-piece china filled a glass cabinet.

  The breakfast nook looked nearly as untouched, except for one of the chairs. The chair was pulled away slightly from the knotty pine table. Looking closer, I noticed that the varnish at the end of one of the armrests was marred—chipped away in hundreds of tiny ruts, perhaps by the repeated drumming of fingernails.

  In the family room, the Hortons had one of the biggest holovision sets I'd ever seen. I found the remote and turned it on. It was tuned to the Mars Channel. So Mrs. Horton watched that, too. But instead of the usual live transmission from the Romulus, a studio anchor at Mission Control was reading some news copy. Apparently, while I was sleeping late, there had been an important story.

  During the night, a fire had broken out aboard the Romulus. The crew had to don their pressure suits and evacuate the air from the cabin to put the blaze out. It was dicey for a while, but everyone was okay and the mission was continuing. They were still one month away from Mars.

  I turned off the set and put the remote back where I found it. I should have left the house then, but I wanted to look upstairs. I wanted to see her bedroom. I was a horny teenager and she was the most beautiful woman I knew, so I wanted to see where she slept. It was a betrayal of trust, but I had to see.

  Upstairs there were three bedrooms, just like at my house. The one that was like my bedroom was being used for storage, with cardboard moving boxes stacked four high. Another bedroom had an ironing board, a sewing cabinet and a dress form. Mrs. Horton sewed. I didn't know that about her before.

  The last bedroom was the master suite. A simple oak bedroom set, with the standard furniture and room setup: a queen-sized bed, a couple of night tables, a dresser, and an armoire. Nothing too fancy. The bed was made up with a plain blue bedspread and four pillows. I don't know what I was expecting, some sort of pleasure den or something. This looked more like a hotel room. I couldn't even tell what side of the bed she slept on.

  Off to one side of the bedroom was the door to a bathroom. On the sink were two toothbrushes—the pink one used, the green one brand new. I'm ashamed to say, I opened the medicine cabinet and looked in there, too. I wasn't going to steal anything, but I was just curious and wanted to know everything about her. There was the usual assortment of analgesics, antihistamines and cold remedies. A digital fever thermometer. Bandages. Also one pregnancy test, unopened.

  I left the bathroom and went back out into the bedroom. On the dresser was a studio portrait, a wedding picture. There was Mrs. Horton, radiant in her white dress, hugging the tuxedoed Mr. Horton. Or Colonel Richard Keyes. They really were married, the lucky bastard. In the photo, he looked thirtyish, handsome, and in pretty good shape—exactly the kind of guy a lady like Mrs. Horton deserved. He was everything I was not.

  I started to leave the bedroom, but was stopped short by the sight of another framed photograph on the wall by the door. It was a picture of him, Colonel Richard Keyes, in uniform. It was an astronaut's pressure suit.

  He was that Richard Keyes, the one on the Romulus. An engineer. A flight engineer. He was Mrs. Horton's husband and my next-door neighbor, a real astronaut.

  But why would she keep it a secret, especially knowing I wanted to be an astronaut, too? Why didn't she take his name? Why did they live out here in the boonies of Seguin instead of Houston, where the Space Center was?

  I recalled the first time we met I told her that an astronaut had the best job in the world and she said not everyone thinks so. Maybe she didn't like being an astronaut's wife. Perhaps she didn't want the publicity.

  I really felt guilty then. Here I was, some geeky, horny teenager snooping through their house. And how I went on and on to her about becoming an astronaut, while all the time her husband was a real hero on his way to Mars. I was even starting to delude myself that I might ever have a chance with a woman like that. God, how pitiful I must have seemed to her.

  Mrs. Horton had her secrets, and now, so did I. It was only because of my snooping that I knew her husband was aboard the Romulus. If she didn't want to tell me that, then I wasn't supposed to know.

  I locked up the house and put the key back under the geranium pot.

  * * * *

  A month later, the Romulus finally landed on Mars after its voyage of six months. It was a huge story for me, although most of the world greeted the news with a sigh. The crew would be on the planet for a little under a year, and the media just couldn't keep people excited about anything for that long. This was the third manned landing on the red planet. It had already been done.

  I started school as a sophomore at Seguin High that month. Making friends was pretty tough, as most of the cliques had already been formed in freshman year and I was the new kid. I buckled down and worked hard on my math, entering the honors program. Engineers needed math.

  I continued mowing the lawn for Mrs. Horton after school and on weekends. She also gave me odd jobs to do around the house, like painting the garage and cleaning the gutters. I would have done anything for her.

  Over iced tea, I'd occasionally bring up the notion that I still wanted to be an astronaut and was preparing for a degree in engineering.

  Mrs. Horton would always smile and say, “That's nice,” but I often wondered if she really meant it. After all, her husband was an astronaut, and she didn't seem too eager to let anybody know about it.

  When the Romulus landed, she was away for three days, presumably in Houston at the Space Center. I didn't ask. I just took in the mail and watered the plants.

  At home I watched the four men on the Martian surface. While everyone else may have lost interest after a few days, it was still the only thing worthwhile on holovision for me. How jaded could people have become to lose interest in something as astounding as men walking on Mars?

  Fourteen months went by. It was November and I was a junior at Seguin High, and I watched the Mars Channel every day. The crew of the Romulus had finished their work on the planet and were halfway home. In another three months, Colonel Richard Keyes would finally return and I'd lose my job mowing Mrs. Horton's lawn, but I'd get to meet a real astronaut!

  Mrs. Horton switched from iced tea to lemonade for some reason that autumn. It was good lemonade, but I missed her tea. She still never let on that her husband was an astronaut, and I played along with not knowing. Eventually, I'd get to meet him, and then I'd say in surprise, “Hey, you're that astronaut guy from Mars!” and the jig would be up. But for now, it was still a big secret.

  Once, when I was mowing her lawn, some astronaut groupie pulled up to the curb i
n his car and started snapping photos of the house. I stopped the mower and asked him what he was doing.

  “This is the home of Colonel Keyes, isn't it?” he asked.

  “Keyes?” I said in mock consternation. “No, this is the Horton residence. Can I help you?”

  He took a few more photos and drove away.

  A couple of weeks later, over lemonade, I was joking around that Mrs. Horton looked like she was putting on a little weight. What was I thinking? You never tell a woman that you notice something like that. I was getting older, but I wasn't getting any smarter.

  “Well, Davy, that's because I'm pregnant,” she said.

  I nearly choked on the lemonade, and Mrs. Horton thumped me on the back a few times until my coughing subsided.

  What I should have said was, “So that's why you stopped making the iced tea—cutting back on the caffeine for the baby!” But what I really said was, “But how is that possible? Your husband hasn't been around for—”

  I cut myself off. What a jerk, what an absolute jerk I was. If her husband had been gone for two years and now she was pregnant, then that meant that Mrs. Horton ... no, it couldn't be. Could it?

  “No, it's not what you're thinking,” she said. “Richard is coming home soon. Before he left, we decided to start a family when he returned. There was the possibility of some exposure to dangerous radiation on this assignment, so we took a sperm sample before he left. Now that the dangerous part of his project is over and he's coming home, I decided to go ahead so the baby would be here when he returns. It's sort of a welcoming-home present.”

  I gulped the rest of my lemonade. Perhaps I was relieved that she wasn't cheating on her husband, but I was a bit jealous. Even from millions of miles away, the famous Colonel Richard Keyes, the great hero, knocked her up. And I was just the lawn boy. It was stupid. I was stupid.

  “Um, do you, like, need a Lamaze partner or something?” I asked.

  Mrs. Horton laughed, that pretty, musical laugh. “Oh, no, Davy. Richard will be back in time for the birth. I wouldn't have him miss that.”