SKYEYES

by Edward Es

  Child of Skyeyes

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I brushed the stardust from my eyes.

  “Keep them closed,” a soft voice sighed.

  Two kisses touched them, one on each.

  My spirit stilled, I could not breathe.

  I found myself just sitting there

  Atop a crystal-rainbow stair.

  And as I turned, there by my side

  A girl stood tall, with jeweled eyes.

  Her face gazed up and smiled at light

  That came from nowhere, pure and bright.

  Her arms and hands raised up in praise,

  Her cream-white dress danced round her legs.

  “What is your name?” I thought to her.

  Her heart spoke back, “I’m Diamond Girl.

  I’m everyone who’s ever loved,

  Who’s ever seen the pure white dove.”

  “Please help me, Diamond Girl,” I cried.

  With feathered brush, my cheek she dried.

  “Don’t be afraid, my precious one,

  I’m yours until forever’s gone.

  Come walk with me and hold my hand,

  I’ll take you to Forever Land.

  We’ll play where every story’s told,

  Where rainbows meet and turn to gold.”

  A step of red, then one of blue,

  Each color brought us closer to

  Where rainbow stairs curve down and down

  Through orange cotton candy clouds.

  Were God a child in such a place

  And sat on rainbow stairs alone,

  Would He create with all His grace

  A Diamond Girl to share His home?

  Would He hold out His hand to her

  And walk through clouds down colored steps?

  Could such a touch upon His cheek

  Bring joy so great, to steal His breath?

  On the east-facing flank of the mansion, glass walls of the living room open onto a vast expanse of cedar terrace. Sam leans with his elbows against the railing, alone, having just finished a heart-wrenching cry. From inside, the mournful weeping of Rosalee drifts through the open door. The Sun hasn’t broken the canyon rim yet, but even if it had, only a lighter shade of pale would cast itself upon Sam’s stricken figure.

  A storm lets its approaching presence known by a foreboding swash of dark gray clouds. Patches of morning sky occasionally peer through weak spots in the closing layer of stratus, but not for long as thunder whispers in the distance. Wind swirls around Sam, still half dressed, awakened early for the sad news of the night’s cruel events.

  Of all the ponderous thoughts that trample across his bruised heart, he’s particularly wrenched by the emptiness the loss of a loved one leaves in the world; how the departure of a cherished soul from life can make that world such a lesser place, can reduce the essence of every particle of matter, living or not, turning what used to be mere existence into an aching burden. This, Sam realizes, is but a fraction of what Tom suffered, and through his own demise finally imparts to Sam the sorrow he could not express. He dolefully raises himself and walks toward the living room.

  Rosalee sits on the couch, her face buried in a pillow. Dr. Kirshner sits near her with his hand on her back, and a few feet away, Matt, wishing he could cry, stares out the glass in bound up anger. Sam enters near him, stops, and their eyes meet. Matt looks back out, unable to speak.

  After a few moments the phone rings. No one wants to answer, but Sam finally picks it up. “Hello… Yeah, he’s here. Who’s calling?… Hold on. Doc, it’s for you. Terry Cole.”

  Kirshner rises, touching Rosalee’s head, then walks around and takes the phone, clearing his throat. “Yes, Terry. Thank you for calling… I’m afraid that’s exactly correct. It was a malfunction of that valve. We couldn’t stop it… I appreciate that, and I’m sure Tom does as well, but there’s nothing to be done at this point. I’ll be making a statement this morning. I very much appreciate your discretion in this matter... There’s really no need for you to come out here… Very well, I understand. You’re welcome, of course. Goodbye.” He hangs up, turning to Sam. “The President asked him to come out. To help.”

  Sam snaps. “To help what? What can he possibly do? What the hell can he do?”

  “Nothing, of course. But he means well.”

  “Right.”

  Kirshner puts his arm around him as Sam looks away. “We need to get going.”

  “When can I talk to him? You said I could talk to him.”

  “Soon. He just wanted... he wanted some time alone.”

  “Alone? How much more alone can he get? For godssake, wanting to be so stinking alone is what got him into this whole.... this... damnit. I tried so hard to reach him. Why couldn’t I just reach him?”

  “None of us could, my friend. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Come, let’s go. We’ll talk more later.” He turns to Matt. “You’ll watch after Rosalee?”

  Matt never turns around. “Sure, no problem. I’ll stay here with her. You go on ahead.”

  Kirshner motions for Sam to follow.

  Noelle tosses in her sleep, fighting her pillow until the phone rings, scaring her into the day again. She reaches for the phone and knocks it off the nightstand. Finally finding the handset, she groans, “Hello?… Yes, Jeff.” She fumbles for her watch. “What time is it?… A press conference? Now? What’s going on?… All right, I’ll be ready as soon as I can.” She gets up and walks over to the balcony door, opens it, and is caught by a knifing gust of wind, recoiling her back. After closing the door she peers through the curtains and the darkness of the morning settles upon her. Something is wrong.

  Inside the Driftwood lounge everyone quickly gets coffee, trying to organize. Noelle, bundled in a thick sweater, walks in, her overcast mood matched by that of everyone else, as if they all had the same bad dream. Scott is there to greet her and Nauman walks up from behind. Noelle shudders. “What’s this all about?”

  Nauman sips his coffee. “I honestly don’t know. Kirshner called a press conference for seven thirty this morning. He phoned the front desk at five and asked them to tell us.”

  “Why so early? Do we have any idea?”

  “He didn’t say, but I tell you, this isn’t right. I can feel it.”

  “Oh, God. You don’t suppose—”

  “Let’s not speculate. Let’s just not do that.”

  On the upper deck of the ship there’s commotion in the hallway outside the luxury suites. Though it’s still dark, the light from an open door casts crossing shadows from movement within. Captain Wright, visibly distraught, exits, stopping to look back. He sees Nonna sitting on the edge of a couch in her bathrobe, covering her eyes with a handkerchief. Isabel appears as a blur walking past and out of view, then reappears, her face washed in tears. She walks up the entry passage and slams the door shut.

  Bud stands at his front window staring out at the snowfall, blowing on a cup of tea and fogging the pane in front of him. He takes a quarter out of his pocket, flips it once, then puts it back.

  Harriet’s voice echoes from the kitchen. “Buddy, are you sure I can’t fix you something? You’ve got to eat something.” She enters the room whisking eggs in a bowl, wearing the same muu muu, or a duplicate of it, this time covered by an even louder apron. She stops to look at him.

  “Son, what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

  She walks back into the kitchen and proclaims, “Oh, dear. Bud? You better come in here.”

  There’s a small TV on the kitchen counter, and on it a view of the warehouse, reporters milling around. Noelle converses with a colleague, then, getting her cue, addresses the camera as Bud walks into the kitchen.

  “Good morning, from Rockville, Utah, this is Noelle Crane for ABN news. We’ve been called here early this morning for a press conference by
Dr. Werner Kirshner, who most of you are aware by now has been the person technically responsible for launching Thomas Holmes into space a few days ago. We don’t know the nature of this—,” listening to her earpiece, “I understand Dr. Kirshner is arriving, so we’ll switch to his position now.”

  Bud runs into the living room and turns on the big TV. The scene at the warehouse is still as it was when the last conference was held, though now there are TV cameras and the accompanying blaring lights. Dr. Kirshner approaches the podium, Sam standing grimly by his side. The crowd grows quiet.

  “Ladies and gentleman, I want to thank you for assembling here on such short notice. I will get directly to the point. The news I have to report regarding Mr. Holmes is not good news, I’m sorry to say. Last night, at approximately midnight, we commenced a planned burn of the service module engine to make a correction in trajectory. The valve on that engine failed to close. In spite of our efforts, the engine could not be shut down and eventually ran out of fuel. As a result, the trajectory and velocity of the capsule placed it into an interplanetary flight path which will render it unable to return to Earth.”

  A groan rises from the audience. Kirshner waits for quiet. “Through some adjustments in the direction of the vehicle, I was able to prevent the flight path from impacting the lunar surface. Unfortunately, however, the result is that it will reach the Moon, and the gravity of the Moon will cause the capsule to come within six miles of the surface, then continue on a path which will take it away from both the Moon and the Earth.”

  He dabs his forehead with a tissue. “Mr. Holmes is still in good health, and his spirits, well, as you can imagine, he is disappointed. However, he asked me to convey to all of you who have been kind enough to wish him well, that he understood the risks involved in this mission, and does not regret having done what he has done. That is all I have to say. I will be available now to answer a few questions.”

  A pall hangs over the room and sniffles travel through the crowd as a reporter raises his hand. Kirshner acknowledges.

  “Thank you, Dr. Kirshner. I’d like to express, I’m sure on behalf of all of us, our sadness at this news.” Kirshner nods. “What is going to happen to Mr. Holmes?”

  Francine sits on the couch, watching in horror, her hand over her mouth. Kirshner’s image falters, flickers, then returns.

  “After passing the Moon, his life support systems will last anywhere from two to three weeks, depending on the strenuousness of his activities. He will feel no pain, I can tell you that much. As the oxygen depletes, he will eventually grow tired, and in effect, fall asleep.”

  Another reporter raises his hand. “You’ve said there’s nothing that can be done. I thought there was some kind of retro rocket system, to slow him down so that he could come back to Earth.”

  “That is true, in the sense that there’s a conventional retro system, similar to the ones used on the Gemini missions. However, it is a solid propellant system, designed to be deployed only for reentry deceleration from Earth orbit. It would be of no use in slowing the capsule in this condition.” Noelle raises her hand. “Yes, Miss Crane.”

  Bud watches, inexplicably shaken.

  “Then, there is no hope for Mr. Holmes.”

  “From this world, I’m afraid there is none,” Kirshner says while looking down. Only a cough intrudes on the silence. “Thank you all.” Kirshner walks away with Sam and the crowd sits fixed, Noelle still standing.

  Bud turns the TV off and looks at Harriet, a tear glistening on her weathered cheek. “That poor boy. How he suffered in his life. And now, now it’s over.” She looks at Bud, seeing in him something she hasn’t in many years. It disturbs her, yet stirs her heart. Bud, too, has suffered, and like Holmes, his own heart had turned cold. But in this look, Harriet sees a glint of life, even if only anguish or confusion, both of which can be signs of a spirit reawakening. Bud walks down the hall and she follows.

  He enters his bedroom, takes the suitcase he hadn’t unpacked yet, and opens it, pulling out dirty laundry, then gathers clothing from his drawers and closet, stuffs them in and slams it shut. “Buddy?”

  “Don’t ask me why, Ma, but I’m going back out there. I’m not sure I know myself.”

  “You go, son. You go out there. Whatever it is that’s there for you, I think you need it.”

  Bud looks into her loving eyes, then hugs her tight. “Will you be all right? I’m sorry to leave you here again.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll miss you, though. Just hurry back.” She holds him at arm’s length. “Or send for me! I could use a little change of weather.” He kisses her, then rushes out, unaware that her hand reaches toward him.

  Back at the Driftwood the crowd has returned. Nauman stands looking out the window and sees Noelle coming down the walk. As she enters and sees him standing there, her eyes pierce him. “Your story got enough ‘edge’ in it now?” He has nothing to say as she leaves him in a frost and walks to the kitchenette.

  Scott has fixed a hot chocolate and when he sees Noelle, offers it to her. She takes it, but sets it down and falls into his arms. He embraces her and closes his eyes as she stares unfocused, her head resting on his shoulder. The Driftwood receptionist approaches cautiously with a drawn expression.

  “Miss Crane?” Noelle turns the unfocused gaze toward her. “There’s a call for you.”

  “Please, take a message for me.”

  “It’s Melody. She sounds very upset.” Noelle follows to the phone, closes her eyes, and grabs hold of her aching spirit. “Hello? Melody?… Yes, honey, I know... I’m so sorry.” Noelle bites her lip. “What is it? What is it that I said? Tell me.” Noelle opens her eyes. “What can I do to help you?… Are you sure? Is that what you really want?… All right. I’ll see what I can do. But you have to promise me something. Promise you’ll try to not be too upset. Try to get some rest, and be strong. OK?… OK, then. I’ll talk to you real soon. And I love you... Goodbye, Melody.”

  She puts the phone down. The receptionist is struck by the resolve in Noelle’s eyes, eyes that walk away on a mission.

  Noelle enters where the news crowd is standing in sad confusion and pans the room until Nauman appears in her sights. He looks directly back, as if he felt her stare cut through him, and is drawn toward her. When he arrives, she puts her arm around his shoulder, firmly escorting him out the side door. Through the window, Scott watches him shudder in the cold of the weather, and the moment. Noelle is speaking at him, not to him, and he nods, as much in survival as in agreement.

  Kirshner bounces a tennis ball off a small section of the control room wall between two equipment racks, irritated at the lack of anything to do. He scans a page on a monitor, only fueling the frustration. The phone rings and he answers curtly. “Hello.”

  “Hello. Who is this?” a woman’s stern voice asks.

  “Who is this?”

  Nonna sits in her suite, the connecting door to Isabel’s open. “This is Juanita Holmes.”

  “Mrs. Holmes, I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice. This is Dr. Kirshner.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Doctor. I have to say, I’m not very happy with you right now. I’m not blaming you. I just wish you’d never met my grandson.”

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Holmes. I do blame myself. I should have stopped him.”

  “You know as well as I do no one can stop that boy when he sets his mind to something. Now, I’d like to talk to him. Can you arrange that?”

  “I’ll certainly try.” He puts her on hold, looking at the phone, then buzzes the capsule.

  Tom gazes out the window. He has a paddle board and taps the rubber ball toward Zion, who patiently waits as the ball wobbles toward him, making a clumsy, zero-G swat at it. The buzzing phone is ignored at first. He answers with the handset.

  “Yeah, what is it?” He stiffens up. “Yes, of course, put her through.” Tom winces, as he always do
es when she calls to scold him for not calling. Especially this time. He turns on the speaker phone

  “Hi, you. I swear I was going to call.”

  “Uh-huh. So, do you have any idea how pissed off we are at you down here?”

  “Let me guess. Very pissed off?”

  “Well, just a little less than we are heartbroken.”

  “I’m sorry. Truly, I didn’t want this to happen.”

  “Really, now. You could have fooled me.”

  “There’s a difference between wanting something and not caring if it happens,” Tom says.

  “Never mind what everyone else around you cares about.” No response. “Why, Tommy?”

  “This was for Noah.”

  “And you think this is what he would have wanted for you? To end up like this? I don’t think so.” Again silence. “Something’s missing here. I can’t put my finger on it, but I know there’s more to it. Anyway, I didn’t call to scold you. I just wanted to tell you that I love you, and my prayers are with you.”

  Tom searches. “I love you too, Nonna. And I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, or anyone else. Just understand I don’t regret this, and I’m OK with it. I’ll be OK. Try to let Isabel know that somehow.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Will I speak to you again, before—”

  “I’ll call. I promise.”

  “Peace be with you, Tommy.”

  “And also with you.” After a pause, the line disconnects. Nonna hangs up and buries her face back in her wash rag.

  A heavy downpour has unloaded on McCarren from a foreboding thunderhead that parked itself over the airport. Bud runs out of the terminal holding a newspaper over his head and dodges creeping traffic into the middle island where the rental car vans stop. He sees the Alamo van start to pull away and runs faster, a considerable effort carrying his bag and wearing his overcoat. When he catches up, pounding on the door, the driver opens and tries not to laugh while helping a drenched Bud aboard. Exhausted, Bud stares out the window as sheets of rain batter millimeters away. He barely hears the driver’s babbling over the PA.