The Gravity of Us

by Phil Stamper

  I know him as a Hulk-like presence who still somehow always looks ready for the cameras. He’s got an animated, passionate personality reminiscent of the Apollo astronauts, and I wonder if the rumors are true, about him and Grace vying for the same spot on the Orpheus V mission.

  I think back to Grace’s Shooting Stars interview—which I only watched for research purposes, and maybe because I was a little interested in these new pseudocelebrities—and something about her stubbornness inspired me. How down-to-earth she was, when Josh Farrow wanted her to reveal some tension between the astronauts.

  Maybe there’s more to this mission. Maybe there are real people under this facade. A real story. The rush creeps back inside me. Blood pulses through my veins.

  I pull up the latest issue of Time on my phone and see the Tuckers’ faces beaming up at me. Deb, a notorious space invader, creeps up behind me.

  “God, they’re beautiful,” she says.

  My gaze drifts to their son, Leon Tucker. His smoldering stare makes my pulse spike. She’s not wrong.

  “Could you imagine us on that cover? Me and my parents? We’ll never pull this off.” I clear my throat. “You know where you watch a movie or read a book or something, and the main character switches schools and is worried about not fitting in, or making new friends? I’m not … I’m not feeling any of that.”

  She considers me softly, with a subtle arch of her brow. So I continue.

  “I’ll make friends—or I won’t, I don’t know. People generally suck anyway—but my family won’t fit in. Mom’s anxiety’s gotten so bad she barely leaves home anymore, except to go walk around Prospect Park. And they’ve been fighting so much since Dad applied. The other astronauts are all on another level, and their kids are too. Am I a near-Olympic-level gymnast like Leon Tucker? I just feel so … inadequate.”

  “Calvin, you have like half a million FlashFame followers. You’ve given reports that literally helped sway an election. And even if you have to give it up, you still got the chance at a BuzzFeed internship as a seventeen-year-old—they don’t just give those out.” She places an arm on my shoulder and lets her words sink in. “You’re more than adequate, babe. You’ll fit in. All of you. But you’ll have to let them in too. You’ve got to get behind this mission—I mean, after the shitshow America’s become over the past few years, we all actually have something to rally behind and be proud of. We’re going to fucking Mars. And in whatever way NASA deems appropriate, you, your mom, and your dad are going to help us get there.”

  “I know,” I say. And I do.

  In this moment, just barely, the sparkle of the mission leaves me breathless. To be a part of history, to play a tiny role in this massive scientific undertaking.

  I keep my voice low so my parents can’t overhear. “I thought if I ignored everything that’s happened over the past year … I don’t know, I guess I thought that if I didn’t put any faith in it—”

  “Your dad wouldn’t get picked?”

  “No, not that. I thought if I could stay grounded and make this feel unreal for all of us, then I could be the realist who helped … put Dad back together when he eventually got the crushing no.”

  “Noble,” she says. “But that’s not your job.”

  “It’s a compulsion,” I say. “I want things to be … right. People to be happy.”

  “But sometimes that bites you in the ass. Like when you told me about Jeremy,” she says unflinchingly, “and then I had to hold your hand and coach your breathing after I found out you cheated on me. But you wouldn’t leave—you needed me to be okay, you needed to fix our relationship.”

  “Are you still pissed at me?”

  “Oh my god,” she says. “You’re doing it again! No, I wouldn’t be this flippant if I was still holding a grudge, Calvin.”

  Deb throws her arms around me, and I’m enveloped in a floral scent. Not like roses or lavender, but like a fall-scented candle in the middle of a potpourri bowl. It’s comforting. But I can’t bring myself to hug her back.

  She continues. “But you couldn’t magically fix us. I just needed time. And you can’t fix your parents.” When I lay my head on her shoulder, the tears soak into her shirt.

  “So let’s make a game plan,” Deb says after a moment of silence. “We’ve only got one year left of school, unless you fail out, which would fuck up all my planning, so don’t do that. Depending on when our graduations are, we can find a place as early as May. I’ve got a job, and maybe your family would be rich by then, so we could find a place together in Brooklyn.”

  “What kind of place are we going to find?”

  “I don’t know, some closet in Bed Stuy? We can live in Coney Island for all I care. I just need out.”

  The desperation in her voice hits me. “Deb, what’s going on?”

  There’s a pause, where my heart makes its way down into my stomach. She doesn’t hesitate. She’s not like this.

  “It’s just not great at home lately,” she says, and I get the feeling that’s the understatement of the millennium. She drops her voice to a whisper. “Okay, well, it’s awful actually. My parents have been around all the time since my pa got laid off. Unemployment is only going so far.”

  “I thought he was going off on his own?” I ask. Her dad was a designer for a big corporation and said this layoff was the perfect excuse to start his own design firm.

  “That’s it. He’s got a few clients, he has business cards, he’s draining his unemployment buying new computers and software, but he’s not even registering his company. Mom’s always fighting with him, because having income and taking in unemployment is illegal, but fuck, we still barely have enough money to live off.” She clears her throat. “They’ve been using my money. Some of it, for groceries and rent and stuff.”

  “That’s not fair!” I shout. “You work really hard for that.”

  “I know, I know, but they kind of have a point—I’m the only one with a steady income, and they’ve taken care of me for so long, I should help a little, I guess. But Cal, I don’t even know if we have health insurance anymore.”

  “And you think you’ll be able to just up and leave them next year? How will you even save up the money if they’re taking it?”

  She sighs, long and slow. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll figure it out, even if I have to crack open my radiator and hide it in there.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. There’s one way I can fix this situation. “I’m coming back as soon as I can. If you can just wait until I graduate. I’ll be eighteen; there are plenty of schools up here on my list. NYU, St. John’s, Columbia—I’d need a scholarship, probably, but I think we could actually make it work.”

  “Cal, honey?” Mom joins our conversation and gestures lightly toward the car. Her face is strained, almost like she’s in pain. I know she’s sad. I know she hates the thought of leaving our home. I see the way she tenses her shoulders and grits her teeth.

  And I hate that I want to beg her to stay and keep me here. Let Dad do this on his own.

  “Are you almost ready to say goodbye?”

  “We don’t have to do this,” I say. It’s almost a whisper, and I feel Deb’s embarrassment from here. But I have to say this. “NASA’s making Dad move there. Not all of us too. It’s not fair—have you even googled Houston? It’s a cesspool.”

  “Believe me, I have. Clear Lake City is different, but it’s beautiful in a suburban way. And I think I understand it. Why they’re making everyone move to the same town where the first astronauts lived. I can’t even go on Facebook without seeing all my college friends post about them. And though I’m so sad to be leaving my hometown of forty-three years, it’s something I have to do. It’s something we have to do, for your dad.” Her feathered brown hair covers half her face. She places a palm on my shoulder and gives me a smile that never quite reaches its full potential.

  “Plus,” she adds, “with your dad’s temper, I give it a week before he gets kicked out.”

  We laugh
, but once the laughter fades into awkward silence, I know it’s time. We’re one drive away from a new life. Which means I have three days and a twenty-four-hour drive to figure out how to exist in the town of astronauts.

  Outside the car, I give Deb a hug and a kiss goodbye. Both are short, and awkward, partially because of the move and partially because of my mom’s eyes lingering on us.

  “Love you,” I say.

  Deb smiles. “I know.”

  I settle into the back seat and roll down the window, savoring the last couple of minutes with my best friend. But we don’t say anything. Really, what is there to say at this point? Except, just, goodbye.

  Once we’re on the road, I busy myself by pulling up all the information I can find about the Orpheus program. Its goals, what it means for our country—outside of the entertainment factor, that is. Orpheus V will take six astronauts to Mars, where they’ll build a temporary Martian base, execute some elaborate excavation plans, and perform scientific experiments. Not long after that, Orpheus VI and VII will be on their way, bringing supplies to Mars to set up a permanent base, while Orpheus V sweeps back toward Earth, carrying a ton of soil and rock samples.

  I switch to the full Time story and see variations on the Tucker family portrait. Their eyes stare back at me; their faces hide all emotion behind them. Where I look for panic, I see reserved excitement. Practiced excitement. Grace Tucker’s two teens play their roles well—Leon, the serious, Olympics-bound brother (who is supremely hot, if that wasn’t clear), and Katherine, the precocious sister.

  It makes me wonder … what role will I play?

  The article has a few more pictures spread out of the family together, posed on sets from the sixties. It reminds me of some of the old magazines I’ve seen. A wholesome family candid, with the family around the small box television with its wooden frame and obnoxious antenna.

  “Do you know much about the sixties? Like, the Apollo missions?” I ask.

  Dad fake swerves the car and gasps. I roll my eyes. Mom shakes her head but doesn’t start a fight.

  “You’re asking about the sixties? You’re asking me and not Siri?”

  “Dad, no one actually uses Siri. And whatever, I’ll just look it up,” I say, knowing he will absolutely not let me do that, now I’ve shown an interest.

  “So clearly, I wasn’t around then, but the sixties and early seventies were the golden age of spaceflight.” I catch his eye, and I can see the sparkle from here. “See, the astronauts moved to Clear Lake and the surrounding areas, and they all lived together, partied together, mourned together, and, eventually, some of them took America to the moon and back. It was a scene, like nothing that’s ever happened before. I know you don’t care for Shooting Stars, but even back then, the town was always swamped with the press. You couldn’t get a car down the street to save your life on launch days because of all the news trucks and fans. It was like Hollywood or something.”

  “You showed me those articles once before, I think.”

  “I have all the good ones in the storage unit. Not doing much good there, I guess. But the country was obsessed with the astronauts. The whole country held their breath as mathematics and sheer brilliance brought back the Apollo 13 crew from the explosion that could have taken their lives. And they mourned when the Apollo 1 flight crew were burned alive on the test pad, thanks to a vulnerable wire and a pure oxygen atmosphere.” A silence fills the car. “They were the true American heroes, all of them.”

  I listen to him talk, and I’m mesmerized. He cares so much, but I never really knew. I mean, he had a few books on this; he obviously loved flying planes … which is also why this eight-billion-mile road trip was utterly confusing for me. Was this really his dream all along? Was I never paying attention?

  “That’s cool, Dad.”

  “You think so?”

  My mom laughs at this and places her hand softly on my dad’s leg. I feel the connection in the car. It’s warm, and for one moment, we’re all smiling. I can’t even think of the last time we were content to be around one another. No shouting. No slammed doors, no loud music to drown it all out.

  I know it can’t last. I know my parents, and a part of me wonders if this truly is happiness or defeated acceptance. But I savor the moment as I pull up old paparazzi photos and Shooting Stars clips. I start taking note of everyone’s expressions: crisp, practiced, perfect. Are they all that good at faking it? Or do they actually buy into all this? I’m looking for a flaw, but I can’t find the reality behind the show. Until I come upon a candid shot from one of the parties—looks like another mixer at the Tuckers’ house. Grace has on a sleek, formfitting red cocktail dress; her laugh looks so pure it makes you want to join in. But in the background—

  “Leon,” I say.

  Mom turns around. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, I mean, nothing.” I return to the image. “Just thinking.”

  He’s sitting on their couch, the glow of his phone illuminating his face. But he’s looking up at the spectacle of it all, just past the camera. And there’s a brooding there that pulls me in.

  I’m interested in him purely from a journalistic standpoint, I remind myself, even as his narrowed eyes and sharp jaw pierce through my chest. It’s easy to crush on him for being insanely good looking, sure, but what appeals to me the most is his expression.

  There’s a fire that burns behind those eyes, and I cling to hope that maybe he’s a cynic, like me. My breath catches, and my hand reaches out to the picture. I might be imagining it, but I still cling onto the hope that someone in that suburb could actually be my ally.

  Or maybe … maybe something more.

  CHAPTER 5

  Praise me, for I have lived through a twenty-four-hour car ride. I have lived through two nights in crappy hotels—believe me, the best hotel in Higginsville, Mississippi, is roughly a negative-three-star hotel by New York standards. I survived staying in the same hotel room as my parents, in tiny rooms with thin walls and two double beds.

  I have lived through figurative hell, and my reward? Arriving in literal hell. Clear Lake, Texas, at ninety-two degrees.

  I step out of the car and survey my new hometown. The heat is wet—the humidity clings to my body, to my lungs, to my eyelids. We’ve pulled into a park to stretch our legs as we wait for our NASA rep to come show us to our new house.

  There’s a swing set, a few of those rocking ponies, and an old metal slide all on a bed of wood chips. I try to imagine the kids of the Mercury astronauts from the early sixties—Astrokids, I think they were called—playing in this same park. I imagine a picture-perfect mom holding an infant in her arm while pushing a toddler in the little swing that looks like a plastic sumo uniform.

  Standing here in this swampy mess of a day, I wonder how much they had to fake it for the cameras. Put on a happy face, retouching their makeup between diaper changes and photo shoots. The astronauts had their jobs—to get us to the moon—but their wives had it even harder. They had to fit in, raise their children, take care of the house, the lawn, the gardens, the cooking, the baking, the parties, all while caking on the makeup.

  The Astrokids must have played their parts just as well—rambunctious when the magazines wanted them to be, calm and pensive at other times. I groan when I think about playing that part now.

  “Cal!” Dad shouts. He’s in good spirits, which is the only positive thing to come from this sweaty nightmare. “The NASA guy is pulling up now.”

  Dad’s smile reminds me again of the absence of fighting between all of us. It’s like we’re back to the pseudonormalcy of our pre-NASA days. Dad has plenty of reasons to be happy, but why is my mom smiling too? Does she not want to shatter his fragile happiness? Is she pushing down her feelings? Her angst about being taken away from Brooklyn, her irritation for the duties that are about to be added on top of the fifty hours a week she spends coding? The spouses aren’t like the astronaut wives of the sixties—prim, perfect, calm, sober—but there’s still an expectat
ion.

  Or is she actually … happy? Hopeful?

  That thought makes me nauseous. She was supposed to be on my side.

  The “NASA guy” gets out of his car, and quickly makes his way to Dad. He’s supremely put together, with his short but styled blond hair, checkered shirt buttoned to the top with no tie, and gray slacks that fade into brown boots. The fact he’s in anything but shorts makes me sweat doubly on his behalf. Are Texans just immune to this?

  He shakes my hand as soon as I get to the group.

  “Brendan,” he says. “You must be Calvin Junior.”

  I offer a faint smile. “That’s Calvin,” I say, pointing to my dad. “Call me Cal.”

  “Got it. Well, do you want to see your new house?” he asks. “Get ready for it. NASA’s been big on bringing back the retro appeal.”

  He rolls his eyes briefly, but his smirk says it all: it may be over the top, but it’s worth it.

  The town’s not awful. It’s even kind of cute. There’s a different kind of history here. Modern history. Brooklyn has homes that date back 150 years—even our apartment had the original hardwood floors from the early 1900s.

  We pull up to our house, and I take in the pristine lawn, which fades into the precisely cut bushes lining the house. It’s been so recently painted you can see a glossy shine. The windows sparkle; the mailbox has our last name etched into it.

  There’s something so real about this place, and it counters everything I got from the park. Seeing the pictures, reading the stories, it all seemed perfect.

  And this kind of … is perfect. I watch my dad take it all in, his smile gone—his expression replaced with a look of pure wonderment.

  If I’m feeling this way, I can only imagine the thoughts going through his head.