Rocket Boys

by Homer Hickam

  “What weld?” Quentin demanded.

  Mr. Caton shrugged. “I used a steel tube with a butt weld down the length of it. We don’t have much of the seamless kind. Too expensive. We used what we had on your last rockets.” He turned the casement over. “There’s the weld, right there.”

  I looked and knew the reason for the failure when I saw a deep rent right at the nearly invisible stripe of weld. A butt weld was where the two ends of the steel sheet that made the tube were simply pushed together and welded. Such a joint was too weak for our rockets. There was just too much sustained pressure.

  The other machinists crowded in. “A lap weld would’ve been better, Clinton,” one of them said. “Give you another ten thousand pounds of bursting pressure.” A lap weld was where the two ends of the sheet were overlapped and then welded.

  “Yeah, and I got some of that,” Mr. Caton said sadly. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Can we get seamless tubing?” I asked, displeased at working with any kind of weld.

  “I’d have to order it,” Mr. Caton replied doubtfully. “Your dad would have to approve.”

  “That’s fine,” I said firmly. “I’ll take care of it. Get your order going.”

  I was certain that it was indeed okay for Mr. Caton to write up his order. If Dad didn’t let me have the materials I needed, I’d still get them, one way or another, no matter what it took—guile, tricks, or outright theft. I didn’t need Dad. I let every juicy morsel of anger and bitterness well up inside me, making no attempt to stanch any of it. Instead of hating the feeling, I gloried in it. I was becoming tough, just like him.

  17

  VALENTINE

  IT WAS THE golden age of rock and roll, even for us kids in deepest West Virginia. At night, when we could hear stations far from our mountains, we usually tuned to a station in Gallatin, Tennessee, that played hearty black rock and roll. Although we didn’t buy the Rezoid Royal Crown hair dressing that was hocked in between the songs, we came to love Chuck Berry, LaVern Baker, the Coasters, Fats Domino, Shirley and Lee, Ivory Joe Hunter, and Joe Turner. When Elvis and Carl Perkins and Jerry Lee Lewis came along, we listened to them too, usually on WLS out of Chicago, but our hearts were always with the black groups Gallatin brought us.

  And also anything Ed Johnson played.

  “Where’s Ed playing this weekend?” was the question we anticipated every Friday. Ed Johnson was the man who guided the classes of Big Creek High School through the golden era of rock and roll. A Marine who had island-hopped across the Pacific from Tarawa to Iwo Jima, Ed had seen the world by the time he was twenty and come back to West Virginia to forget it. He worked awhile in the mines and then hired on with the high school as a custodian. He married twice and had children, although we were never certain of the number. The day would come when he would leave West Virginia and move to Florida, where he would be electrocuted while cleaning a swimming pool. But while he was with us, Ed Johnson was a one-man recreation department in blue jeans and a V-necked sweater, playing for our dancing pleasure all the latest records on his homemade hi-fi system.

  Ed’s favorite place to play his records was the Dugout, which was actually the basement of the Owl’s Nest restaurant just across the river from the high school. The Dugout was sparsely furnished—booth benches with backs on them along the walls, and support pilings scattered throughout the room that cut into the dancing space. It was also dimly lit, just a few pink and blue light bulbs in the low ceiling. There was a furnace with a coal pile beside it over in one corner. The Dugout had nothing going for it, except that we loved it. It was our little piece of rock-and-roll heaven. You could always tell how much you’d danced at the Dugout if you pulled off your socks that night and looked at the black ring around your ankles from the coal dirt.

  Ed despised country music—to him it was “plinky-plunk and tacky”—and therefore so did we. He played a mixture of slow and fast songs, the fast ones played if they had a good beat. He rarely played Elvis, because Ed considered his music too fast to dance to and overly commercial. The slow songs he favored were heart-tugging: Dean Martin’s “Return to Me,” Billy Ward’s rendition of “Stardust,” “Chances Are” by Johnny Mathis, “It’s All in the Game” by Tommy Edwards, and anything by the Platters. The last song Ed played at the end of his dances was always “Goodnight, My Love” by Jesse Belvin. Ed chose his music carefully, his dances having an opening act of excitement and greeting, a middle of pulsating, very danceable songs interspersed with romantic interludes, and then the inevitable ending. So powerful was the selection that couples clung to one another during “Goodnight, My Love” as if it were not only the dance that was ending but their lives.

  Sherman called on a Saturday in April, saying we needed to take a break from rocket-building and go to the Dugout. I agreed. I was pretty worn out anyway, trying to be tough and arrogant like Dad. I just wanted to be a normal kid again and go to a dance and be with other kids too.

  I told Sherman I thought maybe we could catch a ride over with Jim since he had the Buick, but by the time I got around to asking, he’d already taken off. Mom said he’d spent even longer than usual getting ready for his date, so she had to be somebody “pretty special.” I didn’t say it to Mom, but they were all “pretty special” to Jim. He had cut a wide swath through the girls of Big Creek High, leaving behind him a crowd of broken hearts.

  Sherman and I stood in the dirt on the other side of the gas station for only a few minutes before someone picked us up and took us to Caretta. After a few more minutes with our thumbs out, somebody else came along and took us all the way to War. There, we kicked down the street, easing into the Sweet Shoppe and eating a hot dog and talking to the rosy-cheeked man behind the counter, who complimented us on our pink shirts, black draped and pegged pants, white socks, and brown loafers. We were a proud pair, dropping by the pool hall, playing a quick game of eight ball, and then, as the sky darkened, swaggering down the sidewalk. Susan Linkous, a pretty ninth-grader at War Junior, waved at us from her front porch and we “howdy’d” her, strutting even more.

  A block away, we could hear the muffled music coming from the Dugout. The dance had been in full swing for an hour. At the door, we were greeted by a blast of warm air and the vision of shadowy, dancing bodies. Ed, who knew everybody by name, greeted us. His latest girlfriend, a blond young honey, stamped a black spot on the back of our hands after we gave her our quarters. Sherman saw a girl he liked and tapped her on the shoulder and hit the dance floor for about ten straight. His weak leg made him dance a little funny, one foot turned out for balance, but it didn’t keep the girls from wanting a turn with him. I edged into the darkness and saw Emily Sue and Tootsie Rose sitting on a bench and went over and talked to them. Connie Peery was home from college, and she snared me for a quick dance while her boyfriend was sneaking a smoke in the parking lot across the river. Ed was into the opening sequence of his middle act, the records bouncy ones with good beats. I watched cheerleaders Cathie Patterson and Sandy Whitt dance with their boyfriends. Cathie was an energetic, athletic dancer. Her boyfriend’s shirt was soaked in sweat from trying to keep up with her. She waved to me and I waved back. She called out, “How’re your rockets doing?” and I nodded to say they were okay and so was I. I was having a good time, all my worries about rockets and everything else put aside. Rock and roll and being surrounded by my classmates and friends were good medicine.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Valentine with Buck Trant. I had been surprised during the last few weeks to see them sitting by themselves in the morning and at lunch too. That usually meant something serious was going on between a boy and a girl at Big Creek. I didn’t think Buck was anywhere near good enough for her. I had no right to be jealous, of course, since I was committed heart and soul to Dorothy.

  Valentine and Buck were apparently having a quarrel. She spun on her heel after shaking her finger in his face and stomped out of the Dugout. Buck hurried after her, whining, but Ed sto
pped him, said a few words, and I watched as the huge boy trudged sullenly back to a bench and slumped down. Sensitive to the ebb and flow of teenage romance, Ed often chose slow songs to get a couple back together. He was usually successful. I saw it more than once—the boy and girl, eyes closed, draped onto one another, swaying to Ed’s romantic music, all forgiven. Ed made no such attempt for Buck. The boy was not one of his favorites. After a while, Valentine came back in and pulled Buck up for a fast dance. Buck shuffled after her, his big hands hanging limply at his sides.

  Connie’s boyfriend was back, so Emily Sue and I did a fast dance, and then I danced with Becky Hurt and Tish Hampton and Mary Grigoraci and Dana Beavers. I asked Malvey Sue Harlow, a tenth-grader, for a slow dance, and then went back out on the floor for a “chicken” with Lucky Jo Addair—one foot out and then the other, our heads bobbing in time to the beat. Bodies swirled around me, and I inhaled the wonderful intoxicating aroma of sweat and perfume all mixed up. Sherman had disappeared into the shadows with his sweetie, but I was sticking to the lighted area, making myself available. That was when I saw Dorothy.

  I had never seen Dorothy at the Dugout before. She was standing alone just inside the door, wearing a black skirt and a pale green sweater with the collar of a white blouse peeking out. She had her dancing shoes on. I perked up, thinking that she had come alone, but then I saw her date enter behind her with his two quarters in his hand. I recognized him, recognized his flattop of blonded hair with the ornamental frontal curl, the snarly lips, the athletic lumber.

  My brother took Dorothy’s perfect little hand and together they walked out under the pink and blue lights and green and white crepe paper and began to dance to a booming Ed Johnson middle-act song, syncopated by the sound of my broken heart shattering on the concrete floor.

  How I made my feet and legs move I do not know, but they got me to an empty bench in the back, where I sat as Jim worked his magic stuff on Dorothy in front of my eyes. I was a fascinated spectator in the way the surviving passengers must have been as they watched the Titanic sink. Other dancers swirled around the floor and some girls even came and asked me to dance, but I did not respond. I was too busy dying a thousand deaths. And then, oh, my God, Ed played a slow song, “It’s All in the Game” by Tommy Edwards.

  Many a tear has to fall,

  But it’s all in the game.

  All in the wonderful game,

  That we know as Love.

  Dorothy melted in Jim’s arms. As my stomach tightened, he took his stubby hands and clasped them around her petite, perfect waist, while she tucked her head into his lumpish shoulder, her summer-sky-blue eyes closed, a contented smile on her perfect lips.

  Once in a while, he won’t call,

  But it’s all in the game.

  Soon he’ll be there at your side,

  With a sweet bouquet.

  I saw Jim lean back, pretend to hand Dorothy a bouquet, and when she took the invisible flowers, I felt my soul curl up and die, and then all the blood that was in my body drained completely to my feet. I was numb and in exquisite pain at the same moment.

  “Sonny?”

  It was Valentine.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  I looked up at her and then at her hand held out to me. I took it instinctively and she walked backward, pulling me to my feet. She bumped into Jim and Dorothy. Dorothy opened her eyes sleepily and Jim scowled, but they moved out of her way. Valentine draped her arms around my neck. We swayed to the song, and then Valentine’s lips were brushing my ear and I wasn’t really thinking about Dorothy and Jim anymore.

  Then he’ll kiss your lips,

  And caress your waiting finger tips.

  And your hearts will fly away.

  I cannot say that I remember leaving the Dugout with Valentine. When I thought about it later, I did seem to remember Ed patting me on the back in a special, urging way. Valentine and I had to cross the bridge to the parking lot in front of the high school, but I don’t remember that either. I do remember Buck’s old Dodge and Valentine opening the back door and getting inside, scooting across the bench seat in the back, and then reaching across it to take my hand and draw me inside with her. Then she locked all the doors and settled back, her hands moving to the bottom of her sweater, her arms crossing, and she raised it over her face. She shook out her hair as she dropped the sweater into the front seat. She smelled of musk and desire. Or was that me? She opened her arms and took me in.

  I thought I heard Buck knocking on the window and wailing something, but not much more. Valentine had found WLS, and the DJ was in a romantic mood.

  Love is a many-splendored thing.

  It’s the April rose that only grows in the early spring …

  Santo and Johnny’s “Sleepwalk” was playing when I next came up for air, the windows of the Dodge steamy and gray, the heavier droplets making curving little translucent streaks down them. I rested on her, my cheek so tight against her it was as if it were welded to her breast. After a while, she eased me up and out of the car. She leaned across the seat on her knees. “Sweet chile,” she said as she hugged me. She touched me on my nose. “Other women will have you in your life, but nobody will have you first except me, and don’t you ever forget that.” And then she closed the door and I knew it was time for me to go. I walked unsteadily back to the bridge where Buck waited, his arms resting on the rail, his head hung over the water. I stopped beside his bulk as if I were in a dream. It was crazy, but I felt no threat from him, even though he had to know it was me in his car with Valentine. Valentine started the Dodge and turned it around in the parking lot, then drove over the bridge and kept going without any apparent intention of coming back, even though it was Buck’s car. Buck turned to watch her go. “Oh, how I love that girl,” he moaned. All of a sudden I felt so sorry for Buck. He had been robbed of playing football his senior year, robbed of going to college, and probably robbed of ever making something more out of himself than what he was. I wanted to tell him how awful I felt, to console him somehow, to make it all better for him, even though it was me who had just been with the girl he loved. The best I managed was to pat his arm in a there-there way while he sobbed, his hands to his face. I stayed with him until finally it occurred to me that at the end of his crying, Buck might decide to throw me off the bridge. I fled into the darkness.

  AT the Dugout, Ed had already played “Goodnight, My Love,” and the place was empty. Sherman was gone, most likely catching a ride to English to the drive-in before hitching the rest of the way home. I looked at the clock inside the Owl’s Nest and was surprised to see that it was well past midnight. There was a storm in the air, and as I hurried down the sidewalk, the first patter of rain came, and in the distance, I saw lightning. A car eased up the road and I stuck my thumb out and it stopped. It was 2:00 A.M. before another ride got me all the way to Coalwood. The rain was lashing the valley, and thunder and lighting crashed across the mountains.

  The tipple area of the mine seemed to be strangely lit—a big spotlight directed at the man-hoist—as my ride carried me past it. When I looked down the valley, there was a light on every porch, and I could see the dark shapes of people walking up the street toward the mine. The back door of my house stood wide open. I came inside cautiously and found Mom sitting at the kitchen table in front of her painting. She stared at me and spoke to me as if she were the guard to the very gates of hell. “You are not to go to the mine,” she intoned gravely as lighting split the air and turned her face bluish-white. “No matter what else you do this night, you mustn’t do that.”

  18

  THE BUMP

  I COAXED OUT of Mom what had happened. Three hours before, two fans had been struck by lightning, and thirty minutes after that, a bump had occurred near the face. Then of course the black phone rang, and Dad heard there was a fall, men were hurt, maybe trapped, methane was surely seeping in. If the fans didn’t get going soon, there was likely to be an explosion that would streak through the length of th
e mine. Dad ordered everybody out who could get out and then slammed the phone down and ran to the basement.

  “I told him not to go inside,” she said bitterly. “Let the rescue squad do it, I said. But no—it’s not his way. ‘I have to go,’ he said. I told him he just couldn’t stand that somebody else might go inside his precious mine and do something without him.

  “So now you’re home,” she said to me. “I’m not even going to ask you where you’ve been. Go to your room and go to bed. That’s where Jim is. What goes on inside that filthy pit doesn’t concern either one of you.”

  As ordered, I went to my room and looked out the window and saw cars and trucks rushing past, making toward the mine. Then I saw an ambulance coming across the mountain from Welch. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed and the rain came in swaths. Townspeople straggled by carrying umbrellas, their coats pulled tight around their throats.

  I couldn’t stand to hide in my room and not know what was happening. I opened my window and went out on the roof and then swung down over the ledge, caught the windowsill, and dropped into the yard. I hopped the fence and merged with the line of people winding up the path toward the mine. Nearly all of the people of Coalwood were gathering there. A barrier of saw-horses had been erected, and the women whose husbands were inside stood in a special place behind them. I heard people talking. The rescue team had descended hours before. There had been no word since.

  I watched from the shadows of the bathhouse. My thoughts were in turmoil—so much had happened already this night. Doro—thy was gone forever. I could never feel about her the same way I had after she’d been with Jim. I watched the men and women of the Salvation Army share a prayer with anyone who seemed to need it. I thought of Valentine, and it gave me no pleasure. My first experience with a girl seemed sad. Valentine had loved me with pity in her heart.