I Love You, Michael Collins

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  We knew what he meant by that, too. Ever since Bess started dating Vinny, he’s been the only thing she can think or talk about. Everything is “Vinny this” and “Vinny that.”

  My father is not a huge fan of Vinny’s. My father says that Vinny’s hair is too long. My father says that only Jesus should look like Jesus.

  “Billions of dollars!” my dad practically shouted. And here it was. The inevitable had finally arrived.

  “Billions of taxpayer dollars this country is spending to put a man on the moon,” he continued. “And for what? So we can win the space race? So we can outdo the Russians? Why?”

  He looked like he would’ve liked an answer, but none of us were about to try giving him one. We knew that whatever we said it’d be wrong.

  “Nixon thinks he’s so smart,” my dad muttered. “But tell me this: Who cares who wins the space race?”

  Just about everybody, I thought to myself.

  But then I started to wonder: Do you care about the space race, Michael Collins? Is it something you think about? Like when you get up in the morning, is your first thought, I hope we win this space race thing—we need to beat those Russians to the moon?

  “Nixon didn’t start the space race,” my mom pointed out.

  “No, he didn’t.” My dad let her have the point. “Kennedy did. But it’s Nixon who’s determined to finish it.”

  The table fell silent just long enough for me to take another bite of chicken. I must confess, even with the cream of mushroom soup, it was less “M’m! M’m! Good!” than usual.

  “At least Nixon said twenty-five thousand troops will leave Vietnam by the end of August,” my mom pointed out hopefully.

  “But we never should have been there in the first place,” my dad shot back.

  “True,” my mom agreed.

  My parents have very strong feelings about politics, some of which they agree on.

  My dad will say, “You can’t blame blacks for rioting in the streets. You can’t oppress people forever and expect anything different. If the situation were reversed, whites would be doing the exact same thing,” to which my mom always agrees. But then my mom will sometimes add, “Maybe women should riot in the streets, too?” When she says those words, my dad never has anything to say and his lips tighten in a thin line.

  “What does it even mean?” my dad went on. “So one country wins the space race. Big deal. If the two countries are on the brink of war later, do you think the country that loses the space race will suddenly say, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. My mistake. You’re so much better than we are because you won the space race. We can’t possibly fight with you. We’d only lose.’ Of course not. Any future wars, and how they resolve themselves, will boil down to what it always has: who has the bigger army; who has the better weapons; who has the largest, most dedicated, and best trained fighting force.” He threw down his napkin in disgust. “But it won’t have a thing to do with who walks on the moon first.”

  I don’t know much about war, outside of what I hear my parents say or what Mrs. Collins my teacher said in class about Vietnam, so I had no idea if anything my dad was saying was right or wrong, but I’ll tell you this, Michael Collins: I kind of admired the force with which he made his argument. There’s something about a person believing strongly in something that’s more appealing than believing in nothing.

  “And what good is Apollo 11?” my dad said. “The dang thing isn’t even reusable!”

  I didn’t understand what he meant by that, about it not being reusable, but then he said, “They won’t be happy until they have another disaster on their hands.”

  Now this was new. This had never been part of any of my dad’s speeches before, so I couldn’t help but ask, “Disaster?”

  “Grissom, White, and Chaffee,” my dad said. “Three astronauts who burned to death in an earlier Apollo ship.”

  “They died of smoke inhalation,” my mom corrected. “That’s what the reports said.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” My dad shrugged. “Dead is dead. Poor fools never even left the Earth. This is what this country is spending billions of taxpayer dollars for? When we’ve already got plenty of other problems that money could be used for right here on Earth?”

  I’m sure he said a lot more things, but I barely heard those last words and I definitely didn’t hear anything that came anywhere near immediately afterward because my mind had frozen at “Three astronauts who burned to death in an earlier Apollo ship.”

  Is that true, Michael Collins? Did you know about this? Did you know about this before saying that, yes, you’d go on this mission? Did you know the risk, and still you said yes?

  My mind wasn’t just stopped at these words. My mind was screaming now.

  DID YOU KNOW YOU COULD DIE, MICHAEL COLLINS?

  It took a while for the roaring in my head to quiet down. By then, my mom was saying something about how she thought it would be nice for us to have a Launch Party, invite people over so we can all watch together, and my dad was saying, “Over my dead body.”

  A party, even the idea of one, would normally be such an exciting thing. We hardly ever have parties, unless it’s someone’s birthday. Even the Fourth of July, it’s mostly just red Jell-O served next to a white cake with frosting dyed blue and maybe a sparkler, which is exactly what we did this year. Exciting as that is, you can’t really call it a party.

  But even the idea of a party with more than a fancy cake and a sparkler involved couldn’t cheer me, because if it was no longer roaring, my mind was still whispering:

  Did you know, Michael Collins? Did you know?

  Sincerely yours,

  Mamie

  Dear Michael Collins,

  The worst has happened.

  Someone knows about us.

  Today, Buster and I were playing outside my house in the afternoon when Bess flew through the door, laughing and waving some sheets of paper in the air.

  We were playing at my house because today is Wednesday and Wednesday is Mrs. Whitaker’s big cleaning day. She doesn’t like us underfoot when she’s doing that. And we don’t particularly like being underfoot on those days either. Because if we are, there’s just no telling what we might be drafted into doing.

  I recognized those sheets of paper, and I knew it spelled doom to life as I’ve known it.

  It was my most recent letter to you, which I had yet to mail because it was late when I finished writing last night, so I’d left it on the desk in my bedroom.

  “What were you doing in my bedroom?” I asked.

  “You’ve been writing to Michael Collins?” Bess asked, barely able to contain her laughter as she ignored my question. That laughter, it was like being Charlie Brown in Peanuts all over again: HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! “And you actually believe he’ll write you back?”

  I would like to think there’s a good reason why an older sister would torture a younger one. But in my experience, at least when it comes to Bess, it strictly boils down to opportunity and a few spare minutes of time on her hands.

  “You’ve been writing to Michael Collins?” Buster echoed, looking some combination of surprised and hurt before I had the chance to answer. “The astronaut?”

  “Yes,” I said, snatching at the pages, which Bess held out of reach. “Yes, the astronaut.”

  “What is this, Mamie?” Bess asked.

  “It’s just a stupid school assignment,” I said, jumping to try to grab back those pages.

  I started to jump so hard and so frequently, I could feel the sweat breaking out all across my forehead. After this was over with, I just might need to ask permission to get the hose out early.

  “Everyone was supposed to write to an astronaut, and I picked him,” I said.

  “Only you, Mamie,” Bess said.

  I must confess, her words made me wonder: What did she mean by that?

  “And in case you haven’t noticed,” Bess went on, “it’s summer vacation. So how can this be a school assignment?”

  �
�I didn’t finish it in time,” I said, flustered. “You don’t want me to get an F, do you?”

  “And what are you doing telling him all kinds of things about our family?” she said.

  “Well,” I defended myself like Perry Mason, “I had to write something.”

  “I repeat, it’s summer, so this can’t be a school assignment.” She paused. “Maybe there was an assignment, in the beginning…”

  This time, I kept my arms crossed against my chest and my mouth shut. If I didn’t say anything, no evidence could be used against me in a court of law. And anyway, how could I tell anyone, how could I ever explain to another human being so that they’d understand that what had started out as a stupid school assignment had somehow turned into something I now wanted and needed to do somewhat regularly?

  Then a gleam came into Bess’s eye. “You like him!”

  “Do not!”

  “You love him. You’re in love with Michael Collins!”

  “AM NOT!”

  “And the really funny thing is, you probably actually believe he’s reading these things.”

  “Just give me my sheets of paper, please,” I said firmly, holding out my hand.

  “Fine.” Bess handed them back so quickly I had to grab them fast before they scattered to kingdom come. “But don’t be thinking that he’s ever going to write you. And really, Mamie. Of all the astronauts to pick? Michael Collins?”

  “It’s not like there is an ‘of all the astronauts to pick,’” I objected. “There’s only three!”

  But she didn’t answer. She was already walking away, laughing again.

  It was so silent after she left, I could practically hear the sweat drying on my forehead. It was Buster who finally spoke first.

  “You’ve been writing to Michael Collins?” he said again. “The astronaut?”

  “Yes,” I admitted again.

  Another long silence, then:

  “I’m sorry, Mamie,” Buster said. “I’ve got to go.”

  And he went.

  Sincerely yours,

  Mamie

  Dear Michael Collins,

  Today I got up, got dressed, brushed my teeth, went downstairs, remembered to feed Campbell, had Cap’n Crunch but not Froot Loops. When I was finished, I just sat there at the table.

  “Aren’t you going to ask if you can go over Buster’s house?” my mom asked.

  “Maybe not today,” I said.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you sick?”

  Well, of course I was sick. Sick to my stomach that my best friend now knew the secret I’d been keeping: that I’ve been writing to you. Sick to my stomach that based on the look on his face and the way he left so quickly, in the middle of the afternoon and with so many hours of daylight remaining, that my best friend wasn’t even my best friend anymore. Was it because I’d kept it a secret from him? Was it because he thought that what I was doing was dumb? If it was the first reason, I could try to apologize at least. But if it was the second, I didn’t see how either of us could ever get over that.

  My mom put her hand to my forehead.

  “You don’t feel warm,” she said. Then she looked at my empty bowl. “And you haven’t lost your appetite.”

  Oh, the betrayal of still being able to eat. But just because I was sick to my stomach and felt like I could die, it didn’t mean I wanted to starve.

  “Did you and Buster have a fight?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” I said, which was only the truth. We hadn’t fought. Buster and I have never fought.

  “You didn’t go over there last night like you usually do,” she said.

  To this, I said nothing. What could I say?

  “You go on over there now. I have things to do today.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Walking over, though, I took the long way. By this I mean I walked heel to toe at the pace of one step every half minute, also making figure-eight loops between the line of trees separating our property from the Whitakers’, so by the time I got to Buster’s front door it was well past the time I’d normally arrive.

  Why was I so scared to go there? Because for the first time ever, I didn’t want to see Buster. I didn’t want to see the kind of look on his face that other kids at school sometimes gave me, the kind of look my own sister Bess had given me yesterday. I didn’t want to see the kind of look that would say that I was just worthless and that he was no longer my friend.

  At the door, I pressed the bell as lightly as I could, hoping no one would hear me and then I could just go away. But in no time, Mrs. Whitaker was there, with her Cleopatra eyes and hoop earrings so big that when she tilted her head just the slightest bit, the bottom of one of the hoops grazed the top of her shoulder.

  “You’re late,” she said, sounding surprised by that fact.

  Before we could go into our routine of her saying hi, then me saying hi and asking if Buster could play, and her telling me to go downstairs—which I had no stomach for, for reasons already expressed—she opened the door wide.

  “Well, come on in,” she continued. “Buster’s been waiting for you. In fact, he’s been waiting so loudly, he’s driving me crazy.”

  I had no idea what she could mean by that. All I could do was step inside and go downstairs like it was any other summer day, even while it felt like the exact opposite of that.

  I wanted to walk down those stairs as slowly as possible, like I’d done with the trees. But I could feel Mrs. Whitaker’s eyes on my back—it was like those eyes were saying, Well, go on, then—and I was therefore forced to proceed at a normal pace.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I looked across the basement and there was Buster, not reading.

  Someone had set up a card table, and on top of it Buster was making something with all the colors of Play-Doh.

  When Buster’s engrossed in something, even if that something is not any kind of reading material, it can be difficult to get his attention. But he must’ve heard me, because as I got near the table, he looked up.

  “Mamie!”

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing at the Play-Doh.

  “It’s Apollo 11,” he said.

  “Impressive,” I said.

  I must confess, though, Michael Collins, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was hardly impressive. But lots of times, when you’re working with Play-Doh, it really has more to do with the imagination than what is actually in front of you.

  “Nah.” Buster waved a hand, laughing at himself. “I know it’s not.”

  “It’s colorful at least,” I tried again.

  “Well, yeah, it’s that.” Buster laughed some more. “But we can do better.”

  “We?”

  “Look what I found,” he said. Then he pulled out a magazine and turned to a page. On it was an ad for:

  * * *

  APOLLO-SATURN ROCKET

  stands 4 feet high

  —amazingly detailed right down to capsule hatch doors

  KIT INCLUDES:

  escape tower

  command module

  service module

  lunar module

  and all three stages of Saturn V, plus base

  $10.49

  * * *

  “We’re going to build that?” I said, not even knowing what half the words in the ad meant. What are a command module and a service module and a lunar module? And why would a person need three different modules anyway? But I tell you, the picture accompanying the ad was impressive, the rocket nearly as tall as the boy standing next to it.

  “Well, no,” Buster said. “I just found the ad last night. By the time we sent away for it and it got back to us, it’d be weeks from now. But we can definitely do better than the Play-Doh one.”

  That’s when he pulled out his Erector set.

  Do you know what an Erector set is, Michael Collins? It is all these metal bars of different sizes that have holes in the middle, and you put the pieces together using screws and bolts to construct things
. It is a marvelous invention, enjoyed by boys everywhere—and many girls, too.

  “You want to build an Apollo 11 out of your Erector set with me,” I said flatly. Do you know how that happens, Michael Collins? How sometimes you’re so shocked by a turn of events, your voice just goes flat? It’s like there’s so much emotion, there’s no emotion.

  “Well, yeah,” Buster said. “And afterward, when we’re done, we can take our bikes to the library. Or if it’s late when we finish this, we’ll go tomorrow.”

  “What are we going to do there?”

  “Research. Read things, of course. Find out more about Apollo 11.”

  “But wait,” I said. “You’ve never cared about the space race before.”

  “I did,” Buster said. “But I thought you weren’t interested, so I didn’t talk about it. Now that I know you are, too, I’m even more interested.” He shrugged. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

  “Then you weren’t mad at me,” I said, still feeling some of that fear, “when you left yesterday?”

  “Oh, I was mad,” he said. “But then last night, I realized I was only mad because I felt hurt—hurt that you hadn’t shared it with me when we always share just about everything. But then I saw how dumb that was—you must’ve had your reasons—and I immediately thought how great it is that you’re so interested in the same thing I’m interested in.” He shrugged. “Plus, like I said, if it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

  I have to tell you, Michael Collins. There is not much in this world that makes me want to cry, but as Buster opened the box for the Erector set, as we began constructing our own version of Apollo 11, my eyes were swimming.

  And when we were done? That thing we’d constructed together looked nothing like the $10.49 Apollo-Saturn rocket toy we’d seen in the ad, but that did not matter, not one bit, because nothing I’d ever seen in my whole life had ever looked so beautiful.

  Nothing.

  Sincerely yours,

  Mamie