The Last Pilot: A Novel

by Benjamin Johncock

  I’m sorry, Grace said.

  It’s okay, Marilyn said, moving her coffee out of the way and reaching for Grace’s hands. What is it?

  Oh, God, Grace said.

  Come on, you can tell me, Marilyn said. Friends and neighbors.

  It’s not right for me to come into your home and hear your wonderful news and—

  It’s fine, Marilyn said, really—I’m the wife of a test pilot. I’ve had to deal with much worse, believe me.

  Grace laughed through her tears.

  Have another cigarette, Marilyn said, offering her the pack. Grace took one and lit it and told her everything and when she was done Marilyn hugged her and told her she couldn’t imagine going through what she’d been through and Grace felt a little better.

  What’s Jim been like? Marilyn said from the other side of the kitchen, putting another pot of coffee on.

  Grace didn’t say anything.

  Figured as much, Marilyn said.

  Grace lit another cigarette.

  You know, Marilyn said, returning to the bar with fresh coffee, I remember this bad string we had a few years back at Pax River. Probably the worst I’ve known. I mean, it was grim. We lost twenty-two pilots over an eleven-week stretch. That’s two a week! About halfway through my Jim comes home—on time, thank God—and I say to him, how was your day? Like a good wife. And he says, super, super. So I ask him, you know, did you fly? And he says, yup, lotta fun. And that was it. He started asking me about dinner or something. I found out later that he’d been practicing low lift-over-drag landings in a F-104 with John Murphy in the backseat. The idea was—and I only half understand these things—to land the thing at about two hundred knots using the afterburner for speed and stability, flaring the flaps … well, that was the idea. But the afterburner malfunctioned. They lost thrust, and dropped like a rock. Murphy told Jim he was gonna punch out if they couldn’t regain power. He’s in the backseat and the tail woulda hit first, right? So the tail hits the runway. Murphy ejects. Jim decides to stay with the plane, which hits the ground and screeches down the runway at God knows what speed before smashing into the mesquite.

  She stopped and gave a small laugh at the memory and stubbed out her cigarette.

  Jim was fine. Behind him, where Murphy had been sitting a few seconds earlier, was the engine. Murphy was fine. And if Jim had punched out as well?

  What? Grace said.

  His ejection mechanism broke on impact, Marilyn said. He would have been killed either by partial ejection or the nitroglycerine explosion. Super, super; lotta fun. So, your Jim? It doesn’t surprise me. It’s what they’re like.

  I know but—

  I know.

  Grace stared into her coffee. Marilyn lit another cigarette.

  You have a beautiful home, Grace said.

  Why, thank you. Let’s go outside.

  The women left their drinks and sat out by the pool on green chaise lounges.

  It all feels so … normal, doesn’t it? Marilyn said.

  Grace thought for a second, then said, yeah.

  So normal it’s weird! Marilyn said.

  I know what you mean, Grace said.

  You know, Marilyn said, I was so thrilled when Jim told me about this astronaut business—no, thrilled isn’t the right word, it was more than that. Relief. That’s what it was: relief. It was only a matter of time—and that’s all it is, time—before some officer or base chaplain was going to walk up my path and knock on my door. Now, Jim will tell you that every time you go up, the clock gets reset—you know, that the odds aren’t cumulative? That’s bullshit. Only a matter of time before he got killed testing airplanes for the navy. But he’s out, thank the Lord, and with NASA now. And this astronaut business? I know where he is pretty much all day! And when they put him on top of that rocket? I’ll be able to watch the whole thing on television right from the living room! I won’t have to wait and wonder and watch the clock as it pushes itself toward five and he still isn’t home. I won’t have to phone the wives of other guys in the group to find out if anything’s happened. I won’t have to call the base and demand to speak to my husband.

  Yeah, when Jim told me he was going to be spending the next few weeks in class—

  Ha!

  I almost cried!

  And, Marilyn said, NASA says they’re even going to give us these little squawk boxes—at least, that’s what Chris Kraft called them—like an intercom, only one way—so we can listen in on the communications between the spacecraft and the ground. How about that?

  Sounds pretty neat, Grace said.

  This is the life, Marilyn said. The classroom, the office, the simulator …

  And the only thing you have to worry about, really, is the launch, Grace said. Which, frankly, seems a hell of a lot safer than testing every crazy plane the air force dreams up.

  Well, all I can say is that it’s about time, Marilyn said. So, enjoy it.

  Yeah, Grace said, looking at the still pool. God. I feel so angry. At God. At Jim.

  There aren’t many people who can go through what you’ve gone through and come out the other side, Marilyn said. But I believe you are one of those people, Grace. I really do. And we both know that God doesn’t cause cancers.

  Why didn’t He cure it then? She was a child, for chrissake! How could He allow it? Miracles have happened before, you know—the blind man, the leper—why not my little girl?

  She started to cry. Marilyn held her hand.

  I don’t know, honey, she said. I don’t know.

  I miss her so much, Grace said.

  Is there anyone back west that you’d like to come visit? Or maybe you and Jim should take a few days, head back, see a few people; maybe spend some time at her grave? I know it sounds strange, but it’s helped me before at times like this.

  Grace shook her head. No, she said. Jim won’t go back. He won’t do it. I don’t think he can. And I couldn’t go back by myself. I’m so sorry—you’re about to have a baby and I’m—

  It’s fine! Marilyn said. Did I tell you how Jim found out?

  Tell me, she said.

  I was terrified. Terrified of telling him. I didn’t know what NASA would say. I thought they’d stop him from going up. I mean, talk about a distraction, right?

  He hadn’t noticed?

  He’s never around long enough to notice anything, she said. Unless I get my hair fixed in a way he doesn’t like. And I was terrified our doctor would tell him.

  Can he do that?

  I don’t know, but he’s always getting me confused with Jane Conrad, so I think I’m safe.

  Grace laughed.

  I can see the resemblance, she said.

  Early on, Marilyn said, he had to give me this examination and—you’ll never believe this—while he was down there, he says, you remind me so much of Mrs. Conrad.

  No!

  To which I replied, inside or out?

  Grace laughed harder.

  Oh, boy, Marilyn said.

  That’s priceless, Grace said.

  Isn’t it? So, anyway, my dress is getting tighter and tighter and every time we went out in the car, I had to make Jim stop all the time so I could use the bathroom. I told him I had a bladder infection. I’d gotten into the habit of hiding crackers under my pillow at night; they really helped with the morning sickness. I used to nibble on them in the dark when he was asleep. So, a few weeks ago, I was lying in bed, eating these things like crazy, and he wakes up and says, why are you eating crackers? So I had to tell him.

  What’d he say?

  He said pinch me tomorrow and tell me I had a nightmare. Then he went back to sleep.

  Grace laughed.

  He told me he didn’t mean it in the morning.

  So what are you going to do?

  Keep it to ourselves for as long as possible. Jim thinks they’ll realize he’s indispensable soon enough.

  Grace looked at the pool again. A slight breeze formed ridges where the blue grew dark toward the far end and sh
e wondered how deep it was.

  The sky set thickly gray and Grace lit a candle in the living room and carried it through to the dining room. Harrison walked in and looked at her.

  It’s your birthday, Jim, she said. We’re having a candle.

  He didn’t say anything. She walked past him, back to the kitchen, and said, they’ll be here soon; would you go and get ready?

  What’s wrong with what I got on? he said.

  You look like a mechanic, she said.

  The hell does that mean?

  I’m not doing this now, she said.

  What? Grace.

  She turned and faced him.

  It means, she said, that it looks like you don’t give a damn.

  I don’t, he said.

  I know that, Jim; you’ve said it enough times today, but do you want them to think that?

  Frank and Shaky won’t care and the women can think what they want, he said.

  Jim, I’m the one who has to live with these women while you’re at work, she said.

  He sighed and looked at the floor.

  All I’m sayin, he said, is that you didn’t have to do this.

  Go change, she said.

  Grace set the pot down in the middle of the table.

  Rabbit stew, she said, removing her oven mits. Old recipe from back home.

  Rabbit stew! Rene Carpenter said. Grace, you’re so talented!

  Grace held together a smile.

  Grace, honey, it smells wonderful, Marilyn Lovell said from where she was seated next to her husband.

  The barbecue Grace originally planned had turned into a more intimate dinner when only the Lovells, the Bormans, Louise Shepard, and Rene could make it. The others were busy or couldn’t get sitters at such short notice (how was two weeks short notice?) and the other fellas were either at the Cape, or McDonnell, or the office, or wherever the hell else they were when not at home. She wished the Glenns had been able to come but they had taken a trip back east to visit John’s folks. It was fine. Easier this way. And she had a surprise for Jim too. It would be a good night.

  Susan Borman filled her wineglass and Frank smiled at the smell from the pot.

  Beer, Frank? Harrison said. Shaky?

  Hey, you can only get away with calling me that if you’re navy! Lovell said.

  Harrison laughed.

  Beer’d be good, Borman said.

  Make that two, Lovell said.

  Comin up.

  Harrison walked into the kitchen. The doorbell rang.

  I’ll get it, Harrison said.

  This our mystery guest? Lovell said.

  Hope so, Grace said, and stared at the candle.

  Harrison walked across the living room to the front door. The doorbell rang again.

  All right already, he said. Jeez.

  He opened the door.

  Happy birthday, you miserable son-of-a-bitch, Pancho said.

  What the hell are you doin here? he said.

  I’m your birthday stripper, she said. Jesus, don’t look so goddamn terrified. Grace invited me. Surprise. Let me in, would you, the bottom just fell out of the damn sky.

  She pushed past him into the dry. He shut the door.

  Oh, she said, looking around, nice; fancy. What in god’s sweet name is that?

  She was pointing at a portrait on the wall above the fireplace.

  It’s a portrait, he said.

  Of what?

  Of me.

  Pancho snorted.

  Take my hat, she said. Make sure you hang it up; don’t just toss it down someplace. Cost me two hundred bucks.

  For a hat? he said, looking it over in his hands before hanging it on a peg by the front door.

  Hey, I didn’t drive all this way for a lecture on my financials. I brought you something.

  She handed him a wrapped paper package.

  It’s sure good to see you, he said.

  Knock it off, would you. My ass is killin me, sat in that car so long.

  You drove straight here?

  Hell no, dummy; I got friends all along the border.

  Harrison pulled open the paper. Inside was a framed photo of her, him, and Ridley, leaning against the bar of the Happy Bottom Riding Club.

  Pancho, he said. I love it.

  Don’t go gettin all mushy on me, she said, it’s just a goddamn photo. Where’s Grace?

  Pancho started toward the kitchen, muttering about the decor. He followed her across the living room, through the empty kitchen and into the dining room.

  Well if it ain’t the prettiest bunch of people I’ve ever seen in one place, she said.

  Grace jumped up and hugged her hard.

  Good to see you too, kiddo, Pancho said.

  Let me introduce you to everyone, Grace said. Harrison caught his wife’s eye and smiled.

  I gotta take a piss first, Pancho said. I been squeezin so hard since San Antonio I think I pulled a goddamn muscle.

  Gracious, Louise said.

  Rene’s eyebrows arched; Borman laughed.

  I’ll show you where the bathroom is, Harrison said.

  Why? You gonna watch? Pancho said.

  Come on, he said, moving her toward the door.

  Jeez Louise, he said as soon as they were alone. Tone it down a bit, would you?

  What’s the big deal? Pancho said. Those tight-asses could do with loosening up.

  You don’t even know them, he said.

  I’m right though, right?

  Harrison didn’t say anything.

  Ha!

  This is gonna be a hell of a night, he said. What was Grace thinkin?

  She wanted to have a real woman at your birthday party, Pancho said.

  It’s not a party, he said.

  It is now, she said. Now, where’s the john?

  Pancho told stories all evening. The men laughed and the women frowned at the men; Harrison couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his wife so happy.

  How’s business anyway? Harrison said to Pancho as Grace cleared the table.

  Goddamn FBI launched an investigation after some weenie lieutenant wrote General Holtner a letter sayin he’d paid one of my girls for sex—accused me of runnin a whorehouse! I’m filin suit against the U.S. government. Never run away from a fight in my life, Pancho said, and I sure as shit ain’t about to now.

  Uh, Pancho, Harrison said, trying to avoid looking at Rene and Louise.

  I told the FBI, Pancho continued, if I was really runnin a whorehouse, they would’ve found out about it in a couple of days, not the fourteen weeks it’s taken them to find out not one goddamn thing!

  That’s terrible, Marilyn said.

  Sure is, honey, Pancho said. The fellas are gonna have to find someplace else for sex now.

  Who wants coffee? Grace said, appearing in the doorway. There was a show of hands.

  These stories are so fascinating, Louise said, but perhaps we could tone them down a little, or maybe talk about something else? This is a dinner party after all!

  The atmosphere around the table stiffened.

  I’m sure glad you said that, Pancho said. Tell you the truth, I’m havin a helluva time cleaning these fucking stories up.

  Louise blushed and Grace said, do you all know who her grandfather was? Thaddeus Lowe, father of the damn air force—invented aerial reconnaissance; scouting Confederate positions in a balloon for Lincoln himself!

  Okay, honey, Harrison said.

  He built the Mount Lowe Railroad—that’s why it’s called the Mount Lowe Railroad!

  Yeah, Pancho said, but all he had left when he died were his Civil War medals, a couple of gold-headed canes, a sword, a pistol and a watch—and one lousy share of stock in the Pasadena Land and Water Company. He was a smart man; genius even, hell of an entrepreneur; goddamn terrible with money. After the funeral, all in all, we owed seven hundred bucks.

  Nobody knew what to say, even Harrison, but Pancho lit one of her ten-cent cigars and told them about the time she yelled at John Way
ne for interrupting her lunch.

  That night, in bed, Harrison said, boy, that was a lot of fun.

  Grace pulled off her dress and smiled at him in the low light.

  Happy birthday, she said.

  Come to bed, he said.

  She kicked her underwear onto the floor and slid in next to him.

  I’m cold, she said.

  He pulled her onto his chest.

  I thought Louise was gonna have a stroke when Pancho started on about the whorehouse, he said.

  Grace laughed. I can’t believe she’d rather stay above some bar downtown than here, she said.

  Well, her and this Blackie Rowan go way back, apparently.

  Don’t doubt that.

  Yeah.

  Was it okay? she said. Dinner? I don’t want you getting in any trouble because—

  It’s fine, he said.

  Really? she said.

  Yeah, he said. Talk about a cat among the pigeons. I miss the old days.

  Grace was quiet.

  Hon? he said.

  Me too, she said.

  What’s the matter? he said.

  Nothing. Grace rolled away. Can we turn out the light now?

  Thought we were talkin?

  I’m tired.

  Grace—

  Don’t, Jim, she said.

  Don’t what?

  Can we just go to sleep?

  What’s the matter? he said.

  Nothing is the matter, she said.

  They stared into the hard silence until they slept.

  Deke called a late pilots’ meeting to discuss launch preparations for Wally’s flight the next day.

  Take the T-33s, Deke said. Get down there tonight. Each of you has a room at the Holiday Inn, Cocoa Beach. The manager, Henri Landwirth, is expecting you. I’ll see you down there.

  The Astronaut Office kept a fleet of aircraft—T-33 Shooting Stars, mainly; a few F-102s—for when they were needed on short notice halfway across the country. The pilots also used the airplanes to keep up their proficiency and would take them into the sky as often as they could. Plus, there was extra pay. The men complained that the 102s, on loan from the air force, were barely capable of going supersonic, topping out on a good day at about Mach one point two five, like some beaten-up old hatchback. Deke reassured them he was working on procuring a few Delta Darts, the kind of airplane you could really fly balls-out.