The Last Pilot: A Novel

by Benjamin Johncock

  Good coffee, he said.

  Here’s how this is gonna work, she said. As you know, Deke an I been talkin. You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you want. It’s your room. But there’s three conditions. First off, you help me out with the planes. Maintenance, repairs, refueling anyone who ties up; that kinda thing. Second, you see a NASA shrink. It won’t go on your record. Deke’s seen to that. Third, you give Deke a call when you feel right. Said he’ll give you a seat on the next available mission.

  Harrison thought for a moment and said, okay.

  Good, Pancho said, because the other option was to drive you out into the mountains and kick you out in your underwear. Speakin of which, there’s some clothes upstairs Billy Horner left behind, probably fit you. Landwirth is gonna get your stuff sent down from the Cape; out of his own pocket too, dumb bastard, so make sure you call him.

  I will, he said.

  I just thought of another rule, Pancho said.

  Are you just gonna make them up as we go?

  Rule number four: I don’t want to hear any of that crappy NASA jargon round here. I can’t stand it. You want to speak like a goddamn robot, you can do that in your room, on your own.

  Should I be writin these down?

  Rule number five.

  Jesus!

  Rule number five! Rule number five is no backtalk!

  All right! All right!

  Harrison got to work on the Mystery Ship, fixing her up after their long flight. He worked outside, hot wind blowing in his face, like it had always done. He’d forgotten how quiet the desert was. He worked alone, and would often have to sit for long periods in the hangar. Afterward, he’d go out and look at the sand and the sky then get back to work. His mind calmed a little. The ache in his side eased as his ribs healed. He wanted to ask Pancho about Grace. He’d not spoken to her for a long time. And Pancho had not mentioned her once.

  He’d been back a couple of weeks when he had a phone call from the secretary of a Doctor Baum. Baum was a private psychiatrist NASA had employed while selecting the original Mercury astronauts. He worked a day a week at the Antelope Valley in Lancaster. Harrison would be seen then. They would review progress every two months. The first time they met, Harrison knew they weren’t going to get on. Baum looked like a tall glass of tonic with no gin, thin and serious and slightly bitter.

  Harrison did not want to be at the Antelope either. It made him uncomfortable. Pancho drove him over every week, partly because rule number six was no driving and partly to make sure he actually got there on time. During their third session, Baum said, most of my patients want to be here, and Harrison said, really, he didn’t see the point. In the fourth session they talked about his mother and flying and Baum prescribed thioridazine, which the hospital’s pharmacy dispensed for him. He took them home in a brown paper bag and sat in the hangar and read the advisory notes on the bottle and he read each line over and over and he felt scared and sweated heavily. Then he swallowed one of the capsules and went outside and set the advisory notes on fire with a match. When it fell to the ground he stood on the burning paper and scooped up the black ashes and threw them into a water trough. Then he lit a cigarette and went back to work.

  Apart from Pancho, the only people he spent any time with were the Walkers. He’d play with the kids, have a few beers with Joe, stay for dinner. Most nights, he turned in early. He stayed away from the Happy Bottom Riding Club and its regulars. There weren’t many he knew at the base now anyway; most had moved on or augered in. Ridley was in France, working for NATO’s Advisory Group for Aeronautical Research and Development. Yeager had returned to Edwards and was now commandant of the air force’s new Aerospace Research Pilot School, or ARPS, as it was known, designed to produce air force astronauts for both NASA selection and the air force’s own space aspirations. When word reached Yeager that Harrison was back, he stopped by the ranch and the two men sat outside the hangar with a beer and talked about the old days. As it happened, one of Yeager’s first students, an air force pilot named Dave Scott, had just taken his first spaceflight aboard Gemini VIII. I’ll be damned, Harrison said when he found out. He did one hell of a job. Yeager chuckled and said, feel like a proud father. They sat and talked for a long time.

  One night, over dinner in Pancho’s kitchen, Harrison said, I hate goin up to the Antelope, and Baum’s an asshole. Pancho looked up from her plate and said, you forgotten our deal?

  No, he said. But there must be someone else?

  Pancho chewed her food.

  I’ll look into it, she said. Eat your pie.

  He ate his pie.

  A week later Pancho said, I spoke to Deke; got you someone else.

  You spoke to Deke?

  Yeah, I spoke to Deke. And I got you someone else.

  Who is he?

  He’s a she, and she’s agreed to come out here every week, although God knows why anyone would want to talk to a miserable bastard like you.

  A woman?

  Thought you might like it. If you ask me she’s nuts herself but no one’s askin me.

  Harrison stood up and hugged her and she recoiled and cursed him loudly.

  He met with Doctor Louise Brubaker twice a week, in an old workshop Pancho had behind the barn. Doctor Brubaker’s husband, Ed Brubaker, had flown in Korea, chasing down MiGs up the Yalu River. She knew pilots. I’m familiar with the breed, is how she put it. It was a good start. As the weeks went on, their talks began to help.

  Pancho gave him Saturdays off. He usually slept late, ran errands, read in his room. His window looked out over the front of the house. The room was small, with barely enough room for a single bed, which he’d wedged horizontally against the window to give him more space. Next to it was a small bedside table with a lamp, pack of Lucky Strikes, matches, two paperbacks and a stick of Beemans. On the far side of the room, behind the door, was a thin wardrobe and an old chair.

  He’d spent the morning with Pancho in Lancaster, meeting an accountant he’d finally persuaded her to hire. Harrison didn’t like town much. It was busier than it used to be, and he was afraid he’d run into Grace.

  They got back to Pancho’s at noon. He found some bread, a little cheese, some potatoes and beans in the kitchen and took them up to his room with a glass of water. He sat on his bed and ate. When he was done, he drank a little water and put the glass down on the bedside table and the empty plate on the floor. Then he lit a cigarette and looked out the window. The bed creaked beneath him. He finished the cigarette and picked up the paperback he was reading, The Deep Blue Good-By. A few minutes later, Pancho rapped on his door.

  Visitor, she said.

  He sat up. Reverend Irving poked his head in.

  Hello, Jim, he said. Hope I’m not disturbing?

  Not at all! Harrison said, laying the book pages-down on his bed. Please, come in, have a seat. Excuse the mess.

  Oh, said Irving, pulling up the chair, looks fine to me.

  It’s good to see you, Reverend, Harrison said. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?

  I’m fine, I’m fine, thank you, though. I just wanted to see how you were doing.

  Appreciate that, Reverend.

  Call me John.

  Appreciate that, John.

  So how are you?

  I’m okay, he said, I’m okay.

  Pancho told me everything. You’ve been through a lot.

  Would you like a smoke, John? Harrison said.

  Ah, thanks.

  Harrison offered him the pack, and some matches.

  Thank you, Irving said.

  Harrison lit one too. The men sat in silence for a moment.

  Anytime you want to talk, about anything, Irving said, just give me a call, or swing by the church.

  That’s very kind of you, John, thank you. I’m doin okay, though, really. Getting there.

  Oh, and our service on Sundays is at eight. Come along, anytime; we could use a man like you.

  Not sure I’m good for much anymore, Harrison s
aid.

  I think God would disagree, Irving said.

  That so, Harrison said. Must have missed the memo.

  You know, Irving said, looking at his hands. I’ve been seeing a fair bit of Grace this last year or so.

  You mind if I have another? Harrison said, glancing at the Lucky Strikes.

  Not at all, Irving said.

  Harrison picked up the pack and tapped it on the bedside table and jerked his hand so a cigarette poked out of the torn corner. He raised the pack and put the cigarette between his teeth. Then he picked up the matches and struck one and held the flame against the tip of the cigarette and took the first few drags and looked at Irving and said, how is she?

  She’s doing well, Jim; she’s good. She’s been part of church life now for a couple of years. It’s such a blessing. She’s been doing amazing work with the children.

  She’s joined your church?

  She gave her life to Christ and He’s been doing wonderful things.

  Is she happy? he said.

  She is.

  I’m glad to hear that.

  Yes.

  You together?

  Oh, no, Jim; that’s not what I meant. I’m not involved with her in that way.

  Okay, he said. Does she—forget it.

  Go on.

  Nah. Don’t worry about it.

  Sure?

  Yeah. Thanks for stopping by.

  It’s good to see you doing so well, Jim, Irving said, rising from the chair. No need to get up; I’ll see myself out.

  Harrison nodded. His throat was dry.

  Take care, John, he said, reaching for a stick of Beemans. He wasn’t looking, and his hand knocked over the glass which fell to the floor and smashed.

  Shit! Harrison said. Sorry—

  It’s fine! Irving said, brushing glass from his shoes. Honestly. No harm done.

  He looked up at Harrison and said, it wasn’t your fault.

  Harrison’s conscience reverberated. He was momentarily stunned.

  What did you just say? Harrison said.

  Irving moved his chair back beside the wardrobe and said, no harm done, really; it’s fine.

  No, Harrison said, after that.

  Oh, Irving said, thinking. It’s not your fault.

  Harrison stared at him, then began to cry.

  A few months later, Walker augered in doing a public relations stunt for General Electric. His F-104 Starfighter collided midair with an XB-70 Valkyrie bomber; an evil, delta-winged beast with a horrendous wake vortex off its wingtips. Not long after the funeral, Grace ran into Jim at the hardware store. They shared an awkward hello and embraced briefly.

  Nails, she said. I need nails.

  Well, you’ve come to the right place, he said.

  Neither of them said anything for a moment.

  How have you been? she said. You look healthy.

  Good, he said. Thanks. Apart from—

  Yeah, she said. Me too. I’m seeing Grace and the kids tomorrow, actually. I still—I can’t—I mean, when something hangs over you for so long …

  Yeah, he said. Yeah.

  Thought I might’ve seen you at the funeral.

  I was there.

  Oh.

  Harrison didn’t say anything. He looked away.

  Did you go to the other one? she said.

  He shook his head. Been to enough of those over the years, he said.

  Too many, she said.

  Goddamn corporate bullshit … he should’ve never been up there. He’s NASA’s chief test pilot, f’chrissakes! All for some goddamn photograph.

  You’ve got every right to be angry, she said.

  Harrison didn’t say anything. He was now staring at the floor.

  When I found out you were back, Grace said, I wanted to stop by—Pancho … She didn’t think it’d be a good idea.

  Oh, he said. I didn’t know that.

  Yeah, she said. She was pretty insistent.

  She can be that way.

  Yeah, she said. Grace and Joe filled me in from time to time.

  Same, he said.

  She gave a little smile and pulled a finger across the edge of each eye, now wet.

  Shit, she said. Sorry.

  It’s okay, he said.

  I promised myself I wouldn’t get upset if I ran into you.

  I’m sorry, he said.

  No, it’s okay, she said. It’s not you, I’m just getting emotional.

  It’s okay, he said.

  He touched her arm. Between them was a terrible ache.

  Goddamn it, she said, trying to stem the flow with her fingers. Then she fell into him and he put his arms around her and he held her tight. They stayed like that for a minute, maybe more; he wasn’t sure.

  I’m sorry, he said.

  I’m sorry too, she said.

  They parted. She dried her eyes with her palms. A bell rang as someone entered the shop.

  Have you seen Chuck? she said. Air Force brought him back to Edwards.

  Yeah, seen him a coupla times. Been huntin once or twice too.

  She nodded.

  Glennis and I have stayed pretty close, she said.

  I’m glad, he said. You should come over sometime. Really. I’ll talk to Pancho.

  Good luck with that, she said, giving a little laugh. But thanks, I’d like that.

  Okay, he said.

  God, it feels like years, she said.

  It is, he said. Or was.

  Yeah, she said.

  Yeah, he said.

  Okay, she said. Well. I’m gonna get my nails, which I think are over there somewhere, but it was good to see you, Jim. I’m glad we ran into each other.

  Me too, he said. Say hi to Glennis for me.

  I will, she said. See you.

  See you, he said.

  Grace rose early the next morning, fixed herself eggs and coffee and drove to Rosamond. Her arms ached from shoving the heavy transmission around. It was an old Chevy pickup, three-speed, Mexican-red; thirty bucks from Mac, month before he died. It was a wreck. He’d worked it hard. She’d learned how to fix it up herself. Working outside, with her hands, felt good.

  It was almost ten. Rosamond was busy. It had changed so much since the early days, when she and Jim had first moved to Muroc. She could remember driving down Main Street at noon and not seeing a single person. She pulled up outside Howard’s General Store. She was due at Grace Walker’s for coffee and wanted to pick up some candy for the kids. She cut the engine and the truck shuddered into silence. She stared up at the empty sky. Joe was gone. She’d never seen Jim angry before. She found herself wondering what his room at Pancho’s was like. It had been good to see him. She wanted a cigarette. She stepped out into the fresh air, bought candy and a bottle of Coke, which she drank on the sidewalk in the sun. Then she returned the bottle and drove to the Walkers’.

  She stayed for lunch. The children played upstairs. The women sat in the kitchen and talked.

  Do you want another coffee? I could sure use one.

  How are you sleeping?

  Not great. But the kids are, which is something. I’ve got something for you, if I can still find it in all this mess.

  She walked over to the counter and began sifting through a pile of papers.

  Got it, she said, and sat back down. Here. She slid a photograph across the table. I want you to have this.

  Grace picked up the photograph. It was Joe and Jim, standing on the lakebed in their pressure suits, grinning; sky arcing away behind them.

  A few weeks later Harrison picked Grace up from church on Sunday and drove them out to the mountains to fish.

  Look at you, she said, winding down her window.

  Yeah, he said. Finally. Pancho made me do a bunch of tests.

  Bet that was fun.

  He chuckled.

  Think you’ll fly again soon?

  I dunno, he said. I feel better, but I still get distracted sometimes.

  Do you want to get back into flight test? she sa
id.

  That’s a young man’s game, he said. Should have got out years ago. You want one?

  He offered her a cigarette.

  I quit.

  You did, huh?

  Yeah.

  Really?

  John helped me.

  Irving?

  Uh-huh.

  You should come sometime, she said.

  To John and Gracie’s no-smoking club?

  To church. Do you good.

  She laughed.

  What? he said.

  Nothing, she said.

  Was sorry to hear about Milo, he said.

  Ah, he was an old boy.

  A good old boy, he said.

  The best, she said. Her arm rested on the blunt lip of the open window and the hot wind blew her hair in all directions. The road turned to track and the car churned yellow dust around them.

  Can I ask you something? he said, looking over at her.

  Sure, she said.

  He pulled the car over and idled the engine.

  Hey, she said. Why are we stopping?

  It’s important, he said.

  I’m all ears.

  It’s serious.

  I’m serious.

  You don’t sound it.

  I promise, she said. Look.

  She lay back in her seat and shut her eyes.

  See? she said. You have my undivided attention. My mind is empty. Like an empty box. My mind is an empty box.

  I could have told you that, he said.

  She snapped open her eyes.

  Who’s messing around now? she said.

  He looked at her.

  All right, come on, she said, or we’ll never make it up there by nightfall.

  Okay, he said. Irving—John—came to see me. Not long after I got back.

  Okay, she said. Sounds like the kinda thing he’d do.

  We talked, he said. It was good. When he got up to leave, I accidentally knocked over a glass; smashed it all over the floor, so I apologized and he said, he told me, it wasn’t your fault.

  Okay, she said.

  When he said it, when he said that to me—I don’t know; something happened, I don’t know what. He looked up at me, said It wasn’t your fault and it felt like I’d been hit round the head with a brick. It was like my whole being shook. It was the strangest damn thing. I felt odd for the rest of the day. And a while later, with Doctor Brubaker … I don’t know. I started to feel better. Do you—do you think it was God?