God is an Astronaut

by Alyson Foster

  “Really?” I said. This was at dinner the other night, and we were all sitting around the table. We’ve managed to get everybody to the table for the past seven straight evenings in a row, a feat we haven’t been able to pull off in I don’t know how long. But it doesn’t feel like an accomplishment. Every single one of us except for Corinne sits like our ankles have been manacled to our chair legs, tensely chewing our undercooked peas like it’s an act of will. It’s like we’re putting on a charade for some unseen audience, a jury of our peers, that’s sitting just offstage in the shadows and taking notes, scratching rows of implacable tallies on their legal pads.

  “Yes, really,” Liam said. When I didn’t say anything else, he added impatiently, “Go ahead and say it. I can see you’re dying to.”

  “Say what?” I said. All through dinner I’d been concentrating on my greenhouse plans, arranging and rearranging the layout in my head, subtracting and adding up the square footage like a mental math trick. I was trying to figure out whether it would be possible to squeeze in another strawberry planter. (Forget apples, Arthur. I think strawberries should have been the forbidden fruit. They’re so small and harmless-looking. You could see Eve thinking, What the hell, just one, only to realize later her devastating mistake—that the fruit’s gritty, seedy sweetness has overpowered her, made her insatiable against will.) The point is that, for once, I wasn’t thinking about Spaceco. I’m sick of thinking about Spaceco. They can do what they want.

  “Say you think it’s a terrible idea,” said Liam. He was wearing his old Space Cadets T-shirt. For those not in the know, the Cadets are an obscure electronica band. Their music consists of these hair-raising (i.e. “cerebral”) plinks and plunks and long quavery notes. The shirt has an equation emblazoned across the chest that’s supposedly some sort of inside math joke. Liam has explained it to me three or four times, but I still don’t get it.

  “All right, then. I think it’s a terrible idea.” I took an enormous, unladylike bite out of my roll and stared at him. “I think you guys are well on your way to making yourselves the exception to the whole no-such-thing-as-bad-publicity rule. Plus—” I’d bitten off more than I could chew and it was hard to swallow without wincing, but I managed. When I finished, I said, “You saw that guy. You don’t think he came across as a little, um . . .” I drummed my fingers on the tabletop, trying to come up with the right word. “Deranged?”

  “Oh, there it is.” Liam tossed his napkin onto his plate. “Can’t we please for once have a discussion without all this hyperbolic—”

  But Corinne interrupted him. “Someone’s coming to make a movie of us?” she said. I’ve been forgetting lately, Arthur, that she’s at that unreliable age. The best way I can think of to describe it is to say that she’s like the foreigner in our house. She doesn’t seem to comprehend half of what’s said around her, and then suddenly, when you least expect it, she clicks in with disturbing acuity.

  “Yes,” said Liam at the same time I said, “No, sweetie.”

  “No one’s doing anything yet,” I said, glancing at Jack. He appeared to be studiously ignoring us. There was the faintest greeny-gray shadow under his left eye. Yesterday, Arthur, he came home with the sleeve of his windbreaker torn halfway off. He couldn’t/wouldn’t tell me how it happened, or how he came by a mysterious set of scratches on the knuckles of his right hand. I have (deliberately) failed to mention either of these playground phenomena to Liam. Partly because the explanation they point toward seems so ludicrous: it’s almost impossible to imagine Jack having the presence of mind to haul off and deck somebody. And partly because I just don’t want to listen to Liam’s inevitable boys-will-be-boys response. I’m guessing this may be one of the few points on which you’d actually agree with my husband. And so I’m sorry about how this comes across—like I’m some kind of aggrieved women’s studies major with an ax collection to grind—but that expression, Arthur, it fills me with a feeling of doom. Because I know: boys will be boys, and then boys will be men. And I have to confess that I have moments when I think, if I could, yes, I would do anything I could to stop my son from crossing over, from joining you and Liam over there on the dark side.

  “We may not have a choice,” Liam said. He was gently patting Corinne’s hand while giving me his best to-be-continued look.

  Speaking of which, it looks like I have a free hour, so I’m going to go churn up some dirt. Send more details about those census numbers whenever you get a chance.

  JF

  From: Jessica Frobisher

  Sent: Sunday, June 8, 2014 1:39 pm

  To: Arthur Danielson

  Cc:

  Bcc:

  Subject: Re: greetings from the dark side

  Well, I’m glad you found it amusing. I knew as soon as I hit the send button that I should have deleted that last part. That was exactly the kind of remark I used to be able to make to Paula, and I knew she understood what I was talking about even if she wouldn’t admit it. These days when I use phrases like “the dark side,” all I get is one of her long, solemn, shrinky-dink pauses, and then she asks me if I’ve given any more consideration to her suggestion about finding a therapist—just someone to talk to during this stressful time. She doesn’t seem to realize that talking is the last thing I should be doing these days. What I should be doing is keeping my mouth shut.

  Anyway, to answer your question: damned if I know what the documentary would be about. Crazy people who want to go into space? The crazy people who send them there? I’ll say one thing for Monsieur Lacroix—if this documentary actually comes to fruition, he’ll have no end of material. Details are being discussed, deals are being wheeled, and I’m privy to pretty much zero percent of it, so I can’t give you any more details. Honestly, it’s a fucking relief.

  Favorite colleague, if those results you’re getting really are valid, then you might be actually onto something terrible and huge up there. Are you more exhilarated or depressed?

  I’m off to pick some carrots, so adios.

  Your misandrist,

  Jess

  From: Jessica Frobisher

  Sent: Tuesday, June 10, 2014 11:14 pm

  To: Arthur Danielson

  Cc:

  Bcc:

  Subject: Re: on [not] being elated

  No, no, no. I would never want to deny you first authorship on a Science paper that’s going to get picked up by the AP and spread the illustrious name of Dr. Arthur Danielson far and wide. It would be well deserved.

  OK, I would be a little jealous.

  OK, I would be a lot jealous. But I’d be envious quietly. I’d make sure to close my office door before the tooth-gnashing started. You’d never hear a sound.

  In all seriousness, Arthur, reading those propagation estimates you sent made all the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I was thinking about it again yesterday while Jack and I were thinning out the carrots. The soil’s warmer than it was five years ago, the last time I did this, and the seeds grew way faster than I expected. The whole patch next to the southwest corner of the house is teeming with feathery green fronds. We can’t pull them out fast enough.

  The soil is also, apparently, rockier than it used to be. The ground’s been pushing up some heavy-duty stones. Half the carrots we pulled up were deformed. They looked like formaldehyde specimens. They had three or four ends apiece, or these strange tumorous bulges, or they were zigzagged like lightning—the result of their slow-motion collisions with all those stones down there in the dark. “Frankencarrots” is what I called them to Jack. I was trying to lighten our mutual glumness, but he was having none of it. “These things are just wrong,” he said, and I couldn’t help but silently agree. It made me think, Arthur—you’re up there counting pinecones, and we’re down here staring at carrots. It feels like every single thing is another letter in a sinister message, but one we’re not qualified to read.

 
; I meant what I said about the Spaceco project, Arthur. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. I know we’re scientists, but don’t tell me that this heretical thought hasn’t crossed your mind from time. If those trees have stopped propagating at replacement level, if things appear, in fact, to be slowing to a stop up there in that remote pinewood, if it’s beyond our power to save, don’t you ever wonder what good it is to know?

  I have to go, Arthur. Good luck packing those samples.

  Jess

  From: Jessica Frobisher

  Sent: Saturday, June 14, 2014 7:29 am

  To: Arthur Danielson

  Cc:

  Bcc:

  Subject: Re: Fwd: The Truth Teller

  Sorry. I wasn’t ignoring you. Things have just been a little hectic. It never rains, but it pours like hell.

  The film project hasn’t gone away. In fact it seems more imminent than ever, although right now it’s being held up by some sort of schism among the Spaceco employees. There are a group of board members who see Lacroix and his film as PR repair, a chance to show off the sexy prowess of the new shuttle, which was finished just before the Titan exploded. It hasn’t even been on its virgin voyage yet, and what better way to celebrate the occasion than to have a filmmaker with serious street cred capture it on film? Then there’s the group of people—most of Spaceco’s rank and file and the legal department—who think it’s a terrible idea, the people who haven’t been blown away by Lacroix’s charm offensive. They think the company should be focused on trying to woo back the clients who haven’t completely bolted yet. I guess I don’t have to tell you which side Liam is on.

  So the two sides have been going back and forth, each one nailing proclamations on the other side’s church door. So to speak. That’s how I found out about it a few days ago—when I ran into Tristan while I was out digging in the backyard. He was walking around with his laptop under his arm, on the hunt for Liam.

  When he saw me, the first thing he said was: “Are you guys getting ready for your big film debut?”

  I put down my shovel and said, “I beg your pardon?”

  Immediately he grimaced like he should have known better. Maybe he did. I have no idea how much Liam confides in him about what goes on behind our closed doors.

  Long story short, the details above are the ones I managed to extract from Tristan. I guess I’ve probably told you I’ve known Tristan for almost twenty years. He may be heading hard toward fifty, but he has that bullshitty charm women go for even if they know better, and I certainly do. Watching him work a room, you would never peg him for the masochistic workaholic he is. Back in his MIT days, he would pull a twenty-hour stint in the lab, then load up his pickup with a barrel full of “borrowed” benzene and drive out to this abandoned quarry where he would torch things and watch them burn to a crisp. Not much has changed since then—except his pickup, since he totaled the old one years ago. And the arson habit, which he eventually kicked, in painful fits and starts, the way other people quit smoking.

  By the time we got done talking, it was almost dark and about to rain, and the lilacs were practically overpowering us with their mawkish scent. We should have moved upwind. I have no idea why we didn’t. Somewhere during the conversation, he had taken the shovel from me, and he was using the tip of the blade with surgical precision to pick apart an anthill.

  I remember putting my hand on his knuckles. “Stop that,” I said.

  “You do realize that Lacroix is offering to pay us double the going rate for an Earth-spin if we’ll cooperate with him to make the film,” he said. “That’s not nothing. It’ll help us stay solvent, pay the lawyers, until we can get a few more people on board and get in the clear.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t get it. Why the hell is he paying you guys for the privilege of making a piece of corporate propaganda? I didn’t think that kind of thing was really part of his, you know . . . oeuvre.” My attempt at being snide fell flat when I mangled the French. “I got the impression he was all about sticking it to the Man. You know, truth to power. That kind of thing.”

  “Maybe back in the 1970s it was,” Tristan said. “What the guy is all about, Jess, is making money. Just like the 7 billion other people who live on this planet. Besides.” He had started picking at the anthill again. “He’d probably object strongly to your use of the term propaganda. He and his wife are going to retain editorial control of the project. That would be part of the deal. Or so I’m told. This is all thirdhand. Or fourth or fifth.”

  “Well, that’s very reassuring,” I said. “It sounds as if you guys have got yourself one hell of a plan.” I reached out and made a grab for the shovel, but he tossed it out of my reach and took hold of my face. The expression on his face was affectionate or it was rueful, or it was some blend of the two. It startled me. Tristan hasn’t touched me in years—not since before Liam and I got married, when he thought it was funny to grab Liam’s stuck-up girlfriend and give her noogies until she begged for mercy.

  Here’s another Tristan story for you: He grew up in South Carolina. His grandfather was a Baptist minister, the old-school fire-and-brimstone kind. At the baptisms, he’d sweet-talk his congregants down to the river’s edge and then he’d grab them and hold their heads underwater until they damn near drowned. Tristan will do impressions of him, but only when he’s blasted. He thinks they’re hilarious. No one else does, but Liam has always made a point of laughing at them, either out of sympathy or protective solidarity, I suppose.

  “You know I shouldn’t be the one debriefing you on all this, Frobsie,” he said. “You need to lay off the home-improvement projects, or whatever all this is.” He gestured around toward the greenhouse trench. “And fucking talk to Liam. Get your shit together. You know—unified front, and all that garbage.”

  Speaking of getting my shit together, I have to run, Arthur.

  More later.

  jess

  From: Jessica Frobisher

  Sent: Sunday, June 15, 2014 11:49 pm

  To: Arthur Danielson

  Cc:

  Bcc:

  Subject: Hail Marys

  No, Liam’s on the pro-Lacroix side. He was originally opposed to the project, but Tristan gave him a come-to-Jesus moment. Which makes sense when you think about it. Who would understand the power, the deep visceral allure, of spectacle better than an ex-pyromaniac?

  That puts him and Tris in the same camp as the PR people and four of the board members. It was originally a 50/50 split but they’re starting to pull other people over to their side now. Mainly because no one else has any better ideas about how to solve the immediate cash flow problem.

  Anyway, what I left out is that—I know I’m jumping around here—yes, there’s a chance that Lacroix would be coming here to do some filming. That’s what Tristan was talking about. The idea is that the film would be about one or two of the Spaceco guys themselves—a sort of “day in the life of a spaceman.” That’s how Lacroix’s pitching it, and apparently the PR people are eating it up. They love what they’re calling the “human element” of it: on Monday morning the Spaceco man goes off to work at a spaceship station, on Friday night he comes home to drive his kids to soccer in the family minivan.

  I guess they’re figuring that they can use all the humanizing they can get, since this little gem from the press conference is still making the rounds: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiMIrO3kAI9.

  And not that this matters, but you know who else is on the pro-Lacroix side now? Paula. Only what won her over was that New Yorker profile. (The same one you forwarded to me. Whatever happened to your Internet-free lifestyle, btw?) It wasn’t so much what the article said, per se, as the mere fact that our French filmmaker is important enough to be written about in the New Yorker, period. She takes this to mean that Lacroix’s made it, that he’s a respected, legitimate artist, and therefore he can’t be a complete whack job.

/>   But where is it written that those two things are mutually exclusive? That profile certainly wasn’t one of the more enlightening pieces the NYer has ever done. The only thing that jumped out at me was that quote they used as a caption under the photograph of Lacroix. I’m too lazy to look it up, but it went something like: “Theo Lacroix’s films are as unsettling as they are ravishing; they often have the feel of parables with ambiguous or perverse lessons. ‘All I do is follow people around with a camera,’ he says. ‘I wait for them to take me to the heart of the story. The troubled heart.’”

  Did I pull that off with the appropriate amount of New Yorker-esque finesse?

  In all seriousness, Arthur, what does this mean? I read the article right after you sent it to me, and I sat down to write you some sort of smartass reply, something to the effect of: “Troubled heart? I usually just take Pepcid for that sort of problem.” But the harder I tried, the more I realized that I didn’t sound funny at all. And then I clicked back again to that pretentious photo of Lacroix in his windbreaker staring spookily straight into the camera, and I felt so uneasy that I just deleted the whole e-mail without sending it.