In an armchair slept an old man, mouth slightly ajar, his breathing so soft it scarcely stirred the air. At his feet lay a dog. It stared at Andrew and growled, a low ceaseless sound like humming bees.
“Hey,” whispered the boy, his voice cracking. “Good dog.”
The dog drew closer to the old man’s feet. Andrew swung his legs over the bedside, gasping at the strain on forgotten muscles. As blankets slid to the floor, he noted, surprised, how the hair on his legs had grown thick and black.
Even without covers the room’s warmth blanketed him, and he sighed with pleasure. Unsteadily, he crossed to a window, balancing himself with one hand against the wall. The snow had stopped. Through clouded glass he saw an untracked slope, a metal birdfeeder listing beneath its white dome. He reached for the talisman, remembering. Autumn days when he tugged wild grapes from brittle vines had given way to the long fat weeks of a winter without snow. Suddenly he wondered how long it had been— months? years?—and recalled his mother’s words.
… they forgot… and stayed forever, and died up there in the woods…
Closing his eyes, he drew the amulet to his mouth and rubbed it against his lip, thinking, Just for a little while, I could go again just for a little while…
He had almost not come back. He shook his head, squeezing tears from shut eyes. Shuddering, he leaned forward until his forehead rested against the windowpane.
A house.
The talisman slipped from his hand to dangle around his neck once more. Andrew held his breath, listening. His heartbeat quickened from desire to fear.
Whose house?
Someone had brought him back. He faced the center of the room.
In the armchair slumped the old man, regarding Andrew with mild pale eyes. “Aren’t you cold?” he croaked, and sat up. “I can get you a robe.”
Embarrassed, Andrew sidled to the window seat and wrapped himself in the comforter, then hunched onto the mattress. “That’s okay,” he muttered, drawing his knees together. The words came out funny, and he repeated them, slowly.
Howell blinked, trying to clear his vision. “It’s still night,” he stated, and coughed. Festus whined, bumping against Howell’s leg. The astronaut suddenly stared at Andrew more closely. “What the hell were you doing out there?”
Andrew shrugged. “Lost, I guess.”
Howell snorted. “I guess so.”
The boy waited for him to bring up parents, police; but the man only gazed at him thoughtfully. The man looked sick. Even in the dimness, Andrew made out lesions on his face and hands, the long skull taut with yellow skin.
“You here alone?” Andrew finally asked.
“The dog.” Howell nudged the spaniel with his foot. “My dog, Festus. I’m Eugene Howell. Major Howell.”
“Andrew,” the boy said. A long silence before the man spoke again.
“You live here?”
“Yeah.”
“Your parents live here?”
“No. They’re dead. I mean, my mother just died. My father died a long time ago.”
Howell rubbed his nose, squinting. “Well, you got someone you live with?”
“No. I live alone.” He hesitated, then inclined his head toward the window. “In The Fallows.”
“Huh.” Howell peered at him more closely. “Were you—some kind of drugs? I found you out there—” He gestured at the window. “Butt naked. In a blizzard.” He laughed hoarsely, then gazed pointedly at the boy. “I’m just curious, that’s all. Stark naked in a snowstorm. Jesus Christ.”
Andrew picked at a scab on his knee. “I’m not on drugs,” he said at last. “I just got lost.” Suddenly he looked up, beseeching. “I’ll get out of your way. You don’t have to do anything. Okay? Like you don’t have to call anyone. I can just go back to my place.”
Howell yawned and stood slowly. “Well, not tonight. When they clear the roads.” He looked down at his feet, chagrined to see he still had his boots on. “I’m going to lie down for a little while. Still a few hours before morning.”
He smiled wanly and shuffled toward the bedroom, Festus following him. In the kitchen he paused to get his inhaler, then stared with mild disbelief at the counter where an unopened sack of dog food and six cans of Alpo stood next to a half-filled grocery bag.
“Festus,” he muttered, tearing open the sack. “I’ll be damned. I forgot Pete brought this.” He dumped food into the dog’s bowl and glanced back at the boy staring puzzled into the kitchen.
“You can take a shower if you want,” suggested Howell. “In there. Towels, a robe. Help yourself.” Then he went to bed.
In the bathroom Andrew found bedpans, an empty oxygen tank, clean towels. He kicked his comforter outside the door, hesitated before retrieving it and folding it upon the sofa. Then he returned to the bathroom. Grimacing, he examined his reflection in the mirror. Dirt caked his pores. What might be scant stubble roughened his chin, but when he rubbed it, most came off onto his fingers in tiny black beads.
In the tub stood a white metal stool. Andrew settled on this and turned on the water. He squeezed handfuls of shampoo through his long hair until the water ran clear. Most of a bar of soap dissolved before he stepped out, the last of the hot water gurgling down the drain. On the door hung a thin green hospital robe, E. HOWELL printed on the collar in Magic Marker. Andrew flung this over his shoulders and stepped back into the living room.
Gray light flecked the windowpanes, enough light that finally he could explore the place. It was a small house, not much bigger than his abandoned cottage. Worn Navaho rugs covered flagstone floors in front of a stone fireplace, still heaped with dead ashes and the remains of a Christmas tree studded with blackened tinsel. Brass gaslight fixtures supported light bulbs and green glass shades. And everywhere about the room, pictures.
He could scarcely make out the cedar paneling beneath so many photographs. He crossed to the far wall stacked chest-high with tottering bookshelves. Above the shelves hung dozens of framed photos.
“Jeez.” Andrew shivered a little as he tied the robe.
Photos of Earthrise, moonrise. The Crab Nebula. The moon. He edged along the wall, reading the captions beside the NASA logo on each print.
Mare Smythii. Crater Gambart. Crater Copernicus. Crater Descartes. Sea of Tranquility.
At wall’s end, beside the window, two heavy gold frames. The first held artwork from a Time magazine cover showing three helmeted men against a Peter Max galaxy: MEN OF THE YEAR: THE CREW OF APOLLO 18, printed in luminous letters. He blew dust from the glass and regarded the picture thoughtfully. Behind one of the men’s faceplates, he recognized Howell’s face.
The other frame held an oversized cover of Look, a matte photograph in stark black. In the upper corner floated the moon, pale and dreaming like an infant’s face.
APOLLO 19: FAREWELL TO TRANQUILITY.
Outside, the sun began to rise above Sugar Mountain. In the west glowed a three-quarter moon, fading as sunlight spilled down the mountainside. Andrew stood staring at it until his eyes ached, holding the moon there as long as he could. When it disappeared, he clambered back into bed.
* * * *
When he woke later that morning, Andrew found Howell sitting in the same chair again, dozing with the dog Festus at his feet. Andrew straightened his robe and tried to slide quietly from bed. The dog barked. Howell blinked awake.
“Good morning,” he yawned, and coughed. “The phone lines are down.”
Andrew grinned with relief, then tried to look concerned. “How long before they’re up again?”
Howell scratched his jaw, his nails rasping against white stubble. “Day or two, probably. You said you live alone?”
Andrew nodded, reaching gingerly to let Festus sniff his hand.
“So you don’t need to call anyone.” Howell rubbed the dog’s back with a slippered foot. “He’s usually pretty good with people,” he said as Festus sniffed and then tentatively licked Andrew’s hand. “That’s good, Festus. You hungry�
�?”
He stumbled, forgetting the boy’s name.
“Andrew,” the boy said, scratching the dog’s muzzle. “Good dog. Yeah, I guess I am.”
Howell waved toward the kitchen. “Help yourself. My son brought over stuff the other day, on the counter in there. I don’t eat much now.” He coughed again and clutched the chair’s arms until the coughing stopped. Andrew stood awkwardly in the center of the room.
“I have cancer,” Howell said, fumbling in his robe’s pockets until he found a pill bottle. Andrew stared a moment longer before going into the kitchen.
Inside the grocery bag he found wilted lettuce, several boxes of frozen dinners, now soft and damp, eggs and bread and a packet of spoiled hamburger meat. He sniffed this and his mouth watered, but when he opened the package the smell sickened him and he hastily tossed it into the trash. He settled on eggs, banging around until he found skillet and margarine. He ate them right out of the pan. After a hasty cleanup he returned to the living room.
“Help yourself to anything you want,” said Howell. “I have clothes, too, if you want to get changed.”
Andrew glanced down at his robe and shrugged. “Okay. Thanks.” He wandered to the far wall and stared a moment at the photos again. “You’re an astronaut,” he said.
Howell nodded. “That’s right.”
“That must’ve been pretty cool.” He pointed to the Men of the Year portrait. “Did you fly the shuttle?”
“Christ, no. That was after my time. We were Apollo. The moon missions.”
Andrew remained by the wall, nodding absently. He wanted to leave; but how? He couldn’t take off right away, leave this man wondering where he lived, how he’d get there in three feet of snow. He’d wait until tonight. Leave a note, the robe folded on a chair. He turned back to face Howell.
“That must’ve been interesting.”
Howell stared at him blankly, then laughed. “Probably the most interesting thing I ever did,” he gasped, choking as he grabbed his inhaler. Andrew watched alarmed as the astronaut sucked the mouthpiece. A faint acrid smell infused the room when Howell exhaled.
“Can’t breathe,” he whispered. Andrew stared at him and coughed nervously himself.
Howell sighed, the hissing of a broken bellows. “I wanted to go back. I was queued next time as commander.” He tugged at the sleeves of his robe, pulling the cuffs over bony wrists. “They canceled it. The rest of the program. Like that.” He tried to snap his fingers. They made a dry small sound. “Money. Then the rest. The explosion. You know.”
Andrew nodded, rolling up his sleeves until they hung evenly. “I remember that.”
Howell nodded. “Everybody does. But the moon. Do you remember that?”
Andrew shook his head.
“You forget it?” said Howell, incredulous.
“I wasn’t born,” said Andrew. He leaned against the wall, bumping a frame. “I’m only fourteen.”
“Fourteen,” repeated Howell. “And you never saw? In school, they never showed you?”
The boy shrugged. “The shuttle, I saw tapes of that. At school, maybe. I don’t remember.”
Howell stood, bumping the spaniel so that Festus grumbled noisily before settling back onto the floor. “Well here then,” he said, and shuffled to the bookcase. “I have it, here—”
He fingered impatiently through several small plastic cases until he found one with NASA’s imprimatur. Fastidiously he wiped the plastic cover, blowing dust from the cracks before opening it and pawing the tape carefully.
In the corner a television perched on a shelf. Beneath it was a VCR, meticulously draped with a pillowcase. Howell removed the cloth, coughing with excitement. He switched the set on.
“Okay,” he announced as the flickering test pattern resolved into the NASA logo. “Now sit back. You’re going to see something. History.”
“Right,” said Andrew loudly, and rubbed his eyes.
Static. A black expanse: dead black, unbroken by stars. Then a curve intruding upon the lower edge of the screen, dirty gray and pocked with shadow.
The image shifted. Static snarled into a voice, crisply repeating numbers. A beep. Silence. Another beep. The left side of the screen now snowed a dark mass, angular limbs scratching the sky.
“What’s that?” asked Andrew. It was all out of focus, black and white, wavering like cheap animation.
“The lander,” said Howell. “Lunar lander.”
“Oh,” said Andrew: the moon. “They’re there already?”
Howell nodded impatiently. “Watch this.”
The mass shuddered. The entire horizon dipped and righted itself. From a bright square within the lander something emerged clumsily like a tethered balloon, and descended the blurred pattern that must be steps. Andrew yawned, turning his head so the old man couldn’t see. A voice answered commands. Garbled feedback abruptly silenced so that a single voice could be heard.
The figure bounced down, once, twice. The landscape bobbed with him. Andrew fidgeted, glancing at Howell. The old man’s hands twisted in his lap as though strangling something, pulling at the hem of his robe. His eyes were riveted to the television. He was crying.
The boy quickly looked back at the screen. After another minute the tape ended. Angry hissing from the television. Andrew stood and turned down the volume, avoiding Howell’s face.
“That’s it, huh?” he remarked with hollow cheerfulness, hitting the rewind button.
Howell stared at him. “Did you see?”
Andrew sat back on his heels. “Yeah, sure. That’s real interesting. The moon. Them landing on the moon.”
“You never saw it before?”
He shook his head. “No. I like that stuff, though. Science fiction. You know.”
“But this really happened.”
Andrew nodded defensively. “I know. I mean, I don’t remember, but I know it happened.”
Howell coughed into a handkerchief, glaring at the boy. “Pretty boring to you, I guess.” He stepped to the machine and removed the tape, shoving it back into its case. “No lights. Nothing exciting. Man lands on moon.”
Embarrassed, Andrew stared at him. Howell returned his gaze fiercely, then sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Who cares,” he coughed; then looked suddenly, helplessly at the boy.
“That’s all I ever wanted to do, you know. Fly. And walk on the moon.”
“But you did. You went. You just told me.” Andrew gestured at the walls, the photographs. “All this—” He hesitated. “Stuff, all this stuff you got here—”
Howell stroked the videotape, gnawed fingertips catching on its plastic lip, and shook his head, shameless of tears that fell now like a disappointed child’s. Andrew stared, horrified, waiting for the old man to stop, to apologize. But he went on crying. Finally the boy stood and crossed the room, turned to shut the bathroom door behind him, ran the water so as not to hear or think of him out there: an old man with a dog at his ankles, rocking back and forth with an old videotape in his hand, heedless of the flickering empty screen before him.
* * * *
Andrew made dinner that night, a couple of meals on plastic trays slid into the microwave. He ended up eating both of them.
“I’ll bring in some wood tomorrow,” he said, pausing in the kitchen doorway to hitch up his pants. Howell had insisted on him wearing something other than the old hospital robe. Andrew had rummaged around in a bureau until he found faded corduroy trousers and a flannel shirt, both too big for him. Even with the pants cuffed they flopped around his inkles, and he had to keep pushing back his sleeves as he ran the dinner plates under the tap. When he finished the dishes he poured Howell a glass of scotch and joined him in the other room. The old man sipped noisily as the two of them sat in front of the cold, fireplace, Andrew pulling at his frayed shirt cuffs. In the kitchen he’d swallowed a mouthful of scotch when Howell wasn’t looking. Now he wished he’d taken more. “I could bring in some wood tonight, I guess,” he said at
last.
Howell shook his head. “Tomorrow’ll be fine. I’ll be going to bed soon anyway. I haven’t had a fire here since Christmas. Peter built it.” He gestured at the half-burned spruce. “As you can see. My son can’t build a fire worth a tinker’s damn.”
Full Spectrum 3 - [Anthology] Page 65
