“But, Frank,” she said, “it’ll be the weekend! It’s not like you’d have to take time off from work, like you would tomorrow. You won’t be working at all. It’ll even be at night!”
“Did you hear me, Marlene? I said no. Just because the whole country’s gone crazy, it doesn’t mean I have to be a part of it. I will not have it. Not in my house.”
“It’s my house, too, Frank,” she said. “Shouldn’t that count for something?”
“It does, of course it does, but—”
“Do you know something?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “For once, maybe for the first time ever, the entire country is excited about the same thing.”
“Not the entire country. Howard at work—”
“Fine, there are two of you who aren’t excited.”
“There are more people who think like me than you realize, Marlene.”
“Terrific. You can all get together and have a grump party, then. Honestly, you’re worse than the Grinch at Christmas. But think about this.” She paused.
“I’m waiting,” he said. “I can’t start thinking about it until you tell me what it is.”
“Tomorrow’s going to come, Frank. Whether you like it or not, it’s going to come. Tomorrow morning, three men are going to leave this planet and try to do something no one has ever done before. Who knows? Maybe you’re right, Frank. Maybe the space race is dumb and it doesn’t matter who wins it. Maybe this is all just a big waste of taxpayer dollars. But so what? Since it’s going to happen anyway, why not enjoy it? Why not be excited? Whatever else happens in our lives, this will never happen again, not like this.”
I couldn’t tell what was going on in my dad’s brain because his brain is his and mine is mine, but I knew what I was thinking—and that was: I’m impressed. I’d had no idea my mom could talk like that. If it were up to me and I was my dad, I’d just throw up my hands and say, “Lady, you win.” Here was the part that was a little scary, though. Unlike other times when they’d had discussions, my mom’s voice hadn’t risen at all, not once. It hadn’t even risen in the parts where the words were so emotional, it was impossible to figure out how a person’s voice couldn’t rise just then. Instead, from the moment she’d said, “It’s my house, too, Frank,” every single word had been flat.
I know in an earlier letter, I talked about how a voice can get flat sometimes when there’s too much emotion, but this was the opposite of that. Her flat voice had no emotion at all.
“I’m thinking about what you said.” My dad tilted his head to one side. “And now I’m done thinking about it.” He straightened his head, picked up his fork. “No party.”
I thought she’d yell at him then. I thought for sure she would. I wanted to yell at him myself, even though I never had before.
Instead, she quietly rose from her seat at the table.
“You know what your problem is, Frank?” she asked.
He looked up at her, swallowed a bite of spaghetti. “No. But I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“You have no romance in you, Frank, never have. Not even one single drop.”
Then she walked away from the table, walked clear out of the room.
I heard the scrape of the hall closet door, the click of a clasp, the jangle of keys, and the click of a clasp again.
Then, as my father paid close attention to his food, my mother walked back in. Over her forearm she had the straw handbag she likes to use in the summer, the one that’s like a small rectangular suitcase with the brown leather handle, and in her hand she had her car keys. Without a word to anyone, she walked to the door and straight out.
At the sound of the screen door slapping shut, my dad looked up. And at the sound of the car engine, I grew anxious. Even Bess looked, at least briefly, like she might be thinking about something other than Vinny.
“Dad?” I said, that anxious feeling only growing stronger as I spoke. My stomach hurt, and not from trying to eat spaghetti and meatballs on a hot summer night. “Aren’t you going to go after her?”
“Nah.” He took a bite of spaghetti. “Your mother just needs to blow off some steam. She’ll be back.”
Sincerely yours,
Mamie
Tuesday, July 15, 1969, later
Dear Michael Collins,
I thought I was done writing you for the day. I was so sure of that fact that I sealed up the last letter and put a stamp on it. Stamps are expensive, as you may know. Still, I am sending you an additional letter written on the same day because there is so much more to say.
As I write this letter, it is late at night and the house is quiet. Too quiet.
As soon as dinner was over, Vinny came by to pick up Bess. He tooted the horn, and out she went.
“It’s like they have it timed to a science,” my dad said.
And then it was just him and me. That’s never happened before. Or if it has, I don’t remember it.
“Aren’t you going to go play outside with Buster?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Maybe not tonight.”
“You sick?”
“No.”
“Well, suit yourself.”
When the phone rang almost right after that, he jumped for it.
“Marlene?” he said. Then: “Oh.” He handed the phone to me. “It’s for you. It’s Buster.”
“Hello?” I said.
“How come you didn’t come over right after dinner to get me?” he asked.
“Something came up.”
“Well, can you come now?”
I wanted to go. I did. But I looked over at my dad and it just didn’t feel right. “Not tonight,” I said.
“Don’t you realize how few hours are left until liftoff? Soon it’ll be twelve! And then eleven and—”
“I know, and I promise I’ll watch it with you tomorrow. But tonight I’m going to stay in. There’s, uh, some stuff I have to do for my parents.”
“Okay, then.”
“Okay, then.”
I hung up the phone.
I caught my dad looking at me. I don’t know if “relief” is the right word for what I saw on his face, but it was something.
“How about some television?” he suggested.
Considering how upset he’d been when my mother bought it, I’d seen that he had already come to love that color TV in the short time we’d had it. Well, who could blame him?
“Shouldn’t we do the dinner dishes first?” I said.
“Oh. Right. I suppose we should.”
But when we got to the sink, he didn’t appear to know what to do. This is something I’d noticed about him before: that he didn’t seem to have much awareness of the things my mother did around the house or how she did those things. Even something like doing the dishes—it was a mystery to him. I’d actually never done the dinner dishes by myself before, but I’d certainly seen my mom do them enough times and sometimes she even let me help. So I showed my dad how to fill the sink with hot water, how to squirt the Palmolive in while the water ran. When I offered him rubber gloves, he held out his worker’s hands.
“There’s no saving these now,” he said. “You use those, sweet pea.”
When we’d dried the last dish, he turned to me and smiled. “TV time now?”
I smiled back.
He turned the TV on and right away he could see that on every channel, they were talking about the moon launch tomorrow. I would’ve liked to hear what they had to say, but as soon as he realized that’s all there was, he snapped the set right back off.
“Reading, maybe?” he suggested.
I nodded. Then he grabbed his book and lay down on the couch going one way like he always does, but there was no mom there to go the other way and no Bess to sit in a chair, slouched down, leg dangling over one side. So while I lay on the floor on my stomach, in my usual position, it wasn’t the same. The book I was reading was Sounder, by Mr. William H. Armstrong. I do not believe he is any relation to your commander on Apollo 11.
But even though it is a very good book, I could not concentrate.
For the longest time I watched my dad slowly turning the pages of his book. Something felt off. Usually when he did this, I could see the attention in his eyes. And yet now it seemed to me that he was doing what I used to do back when I was a cheat-reader: just turning the pages for show without really seeing what was in front of him.
My dad was so sure that my mom would be back. I know this, because he said it many times while we both sat there, each of us pretending to read. “Your mother will be back soon.”
Only she wasn’t. At every sound, he’d look up, and so would I, only to realize it was just the house creaking.
The marble clock over the mantel ticked loud. The shadows across the room grew long. And still she didn’t come.
“Wow,” my dad said when the time had gone past ten, my bedtime this summer. “I guess she had a little more steam to blow off than I imagined. Still, she’ll be back.” He shrugged, but I wasn’t quite sure I believed in that shrug. “Probably as soon as you fall asleep, she’ll come walking right in.”
Whether I believed his shrug or not, I liked the idea of that last part. At the very least, it gave me something to hope for.
“Why don’t you go brush your teeth?” he said.
“Okay.”
“And then, I don’t know, what does your mother usually do next—tuck you in?”
“Yes, but you don’t have to do that.”
“I will, though. Just because your mom’s not here at the moment, doesn’t mean you deserve to get shortchanged in the tucking-in department.”
It was a nice idea, but as I saw when he came upstairs to do it a few minutes later, he was clearly in over his head.
“Blanket?” he asked.
“No, it’s summer.”
“Just the sheet, then?”
“Just the sheet.”
“And then, what? It’s been a long time since I did this.”
“You used to do this?”
“When you were a baby. I don’t expect you’d remember that.”
I didn’t, but I wished I did.
“Okay,” I said. “Next I say my prayers.”
“Out loud?”
Here’s the thing, Michael Collins. I actually wanted to say them out loud. I thought it might be, you know, comforting—to hear the words out in the air. But I’d long since added you to the list of names of people I pray for every night, and I didn’t want my dad to hear that. He was being so nice, even if he had no idea what he was doing. With my mom gone, I didn’t want to set him off again.
“No,” I said, “just to myself.”
I closed my eyes then and prayed for everyone I loved and for you, too, Michael Collins.
When I opened my eyes, my dad leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. At least he got that part right.
“Good night,” he said. “Sweet dreams. I’m sure your mom will be back by the time you get up in the morning.”
Then he left, closing the door.
And now it’s late at night. I haven’t heard Bess come home yet. I haven’t heard my mom come home. I haven’t heard my dad come upstairs. Campbell is by my side as I write this. There is so much for me to worry about now, even more than I imagined when I got up this morning.
Can you sleep, Michael Collins? Because I can’t.
Are you scared? Or just excited?
Good thing you’re not reading this right now, because if you were, then you would know that I am terrified, about so many things.
Good night, Michael Collins. I hope tomorrow is everything you ever dreamed it would be.
Sincerely yours,
Mamie
Wednesday, July 16, 1969
Dear Michael Collins,
Today was every bit of what Buster said it would be and yet so, so much more.
Before we get to that part, though, I need to tell you what happened first, almost none of which is what a person might call good.
I must have finally fallen asleep last night because I woke up with my face smushed up against my last letter to you. Right away, I got up and put it in an envelope and then put a stamp on it for mailing later. When you get it, I hope you won’t mind how crumpled the pages are.
While brushing my teeth, I tried to convince myself that the night before had been a bad dream and that my mom hadn’t really left. Then I remembered what day it was, the launch finally here, so I picked out blue shorts and a red shirt and I even put a white headband on. I was trying to get the headband just right in the mirror—you are lucky you don’t have to bother with women’s accessories, Michael Collins, because if you did you would know how hard it is to get a headband straight and how sometimes it just makes your hair clump funny—when I heard someone walking around in the kitchen. I stopped worrying about my hair and raced down there, figuring my dad had been right and my mom returned last night while I was sleeping.
But when I got to the kitchen, I skidded to a stop when I saw my dad. He had on his navy-blue work clothes—only from how rumpled they looked I guessed they were the same ones from the day before—and his eyes didn’t look like he’d slept any.
“How come you’re not at work?” I said.
“I thought I’d go in a little later today,” he said. “I didn’t want you to come down for breakfast and have no one be here.”
That told me all I needed to know. My mom hadn’t come back.
“Didn’t Bess come home last night?” I asked.
“Oh, she’s here. But you know your sister. Nothing short of a bomb can wake her before noon.”
That was certainly true.
“Sit,” he said, pointing at the table. “Now, then. What does your mom usually give you for breakfast?”
I thought about this. “Do we have any Froot Loops in the cabinet?” I asked hopefully.
I figured this wasn’t a lie, because it’s not like I was answering his question with that. I was simply asking another question. He could draw his own conclusions.
He looked through the cereal cabinet, found the box at the back that my mom reserved for special occasions. Placing a full bowl in front of me, he went to the fridge and got out the milk. Holding it over the bowl, he started to ask, “How much do you—”
“I can do it,” I said, taking the container from him. I was thinking how odd it was, having him do these things for me, and thinking how good it would be if only my mom was there, too. But she wasn’t. And I tell you, even looking at that bowlful of rainbow didn’t help one bit, even with all the sugar I knew was coming with it, because it just made me sad. It turns out that there’s some sad that even Froot Loops can’t fix.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” my dad said.
That didn’t sound like it left me much choice, so I picked up my spoon. Then my dad poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down across from me. This should have felt like a prize, but it didn’t. I just ate my cereal and he just stared into his cup until the phone rang, making us both jump. My dad lunged for it on the wall so fast, the table shook.
“Marlene?” he said, snatching it up. “Oh.” He held out the phone to me.
“Buster?” I said.
My dad nodded. “Who else?”
I thought Buster deserved better than a disgruntled “Who else?” like he was some kind of annoyance. And yet I could see where my dad had a point. It wasn’t Buster’s fault, but it would have been nice if he were my mom right then.
“Hello?” I said. Then I listened to what Buster had to say, which was so full of excitement and “Holy moly!” it was hard not to get swept along with him. “Okay. I can ask.”
I put my hand over the receiver. “Buster wants to know if he can come watch the launch over here. On the big TV.”
I waited while my dad considered this. “I understand this is something that a lot of families are doing together,” he said carefully. “Doesn’t Buster’s mom want him to stay there with her?”
That was a funny thing about my dad. So much
of the time, it seemed like he had no idea what other people wanted. Certainly, he hadn’t understood what my mom wanted with the Moonwalk Party, that it mattered to her and so maybe he should just go along with her on it because of that simple fact: because it was important to her. And yet here he was, worrying about Buster’s mom’s feelings.
“I’ll ask,” I said.
“Because you can always go to his house,” my dad said.
Usually Buster’s mom doesn’t like us around on Wednesdays when she’s cleaning, but I doubted very much she would be treating today like a regular Wednesday.
“Okay.” I uncovered the receiver and relayed my dad’s question. “Uh-huh,” I said. “Uh-huh,” I said again. Buster was so excited, he was giving me more information than was called for under the circumstances. “Uh-huh, I’ll tell him.”
I turned back to my dad, cutting all Buster had said down to a few sentences: “Buster says his mom doesn’t mind. Says she’s already got a house full of her lady friends there. Says he really wants to watch it on the big, new color TV with me.”
“All right, then.” My dad sighed. “I guess I can’t fight it.”
“He says okay,” I said to Buster, knowing how excited that would make him. Then I hung up before either Buster started saying too much again or my dad could change his mind.
I took my breakfast things to the sink, and almost immediately the phone rang again.
This time, my dad didn’t lunge for it. This time, the phone having betrayed him twice before—once last night and once this morning—by it not being my mom, he’d already given up on it being the answer to his prayers.
“It’s probably Buster again, with one more important thing to tell you that can’t wait until he sees you in five minutes.” He sighed, indicated the bowl and spoon in the sink with his chin. “I’ll handle this.”
I hurried to the phone. “Buster?” I said into it.
But it wasn’t Buster.
“Mamie, is that you?” my mom’s voice said.
“Yes,” I said, feeling more relieved than I can say to hear her voice. And yet, somehow, cautious.
“Is your father there?” she said.
I looked back to see my dad filling the whole sink with soapy water like I’d shown him how to do with the dishes last night. I guess he didn’t realize you didn’t need to do all that for just one bowl, one spoon, and one cup.
I Love You, Michael Collins Page 6
