SKYEYES

by Edward Es

  With the Moon gliding by, Tom pulls himself all the way out and floats, facing the surface. There he is, Earth’s first civilian to reach this frontier, a common explorer across a sea of empty space, his ship offshore of uncharted land. And how lucky, and thankful, he feels. Tom knows in his heart that someway, somehow, he shares this unspeakable moment with Noah.

  Dr. Kirshner pets his dog as he stares at the overhead monitor, showing a view from the capsule toward the lunar surface. In the foreground, the umbilical floats in and out of view. The intercom buzzer sounds. “Yes?”

  Sam’s voice answers, “It’s me, Doc.”

  “Hold on.”

  Kirshner pushes the lock release. The sound of the door opening is followed by Sam’s heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. He appears in the room with a quizzical look on his face, lighting up when he sees the dog. “Hey! Schultzie!” He lifts Schultzie from Kirshner’s lap and strokes his head. The Doctor looks at this pair, the small dog dwarfed by the gigantic man, and manages a smile. “So, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

  Kirshner points to the screen. Sam looks, unsure what he’s supposed to see, then notices the cord. “No way. That’s not what I think it is. Tell me it’s not.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Sam shakes his head. “I can’t believe he really did this. And everything’s OK?”

  “So far.”

  “Is he plugged in? Can you talk to him?”

  “Do you mean, can you talk to him?”

  “Me? Well, yeah. That would be incredible.”

  “I think he can hear me, but he hasn’t responded. In a few minutes he’ll be on the other side and we’ll be in blackout.”

  The Doctor points to the push-to-talk switch on the console and gestures for Sam to try. Sam, still unsure, starts to reach, but stops. “Wait. Is all this going… out?”

  “No, we cut off the network feed before he went EVA. Go ahead, give it a try.”

  Sam cautiously pushes the button. “Hey, buddy, it’s me, Sam. Can you hear me?” There’s only silence. Then, Tom’s voice.

  “Hey, Sam. I hear you. What’s up?” Tom’s helmet comes into view, upside down, as he maneuvers himself in front of the camera.

  “What’s up? You, brother. You’re up. Waaay up.”

  “Boy, tell you what. You should see this. I wish you were here.”

  “They don’t make space suits that big. If I were up there, they’d have to classify me as a heavenly body.”

  “I’m sure there are a few young ladies down on Mother Earth that would agree with that.”

  Sam smiles a smile as wide as his heart. “I’ve got to say, Tom, except for this one major disaster, you’ve really done it this time. I still can’t believe you’re not...” Sam can’t bring himself to say it.

  Tom’s transmission is fading. “I can barely hear you. I think we’re about to go black. Just hold your thought until I come out the other side.”

  “Hey, brother, I’ve been black all my life, and I know how it affects communication.” Tom’s voice is but crackling static as the picture on the monitor turns to snow. “I guess that’s it.”

  “For forty-eight minutes and twenty-four seconds. Normally it would be shorter, but because of his trajectory, he’ll be in the shadow longer.”

  “What’s he going to do back there, anyway?”

  Kirshner hesitates as he looks at Sam. “A funeral.”

  “What did you say? A funeral?”

  The Doctor puts his hand on Sam’s great shoulder and leads him toward the stairs. “Come, let’s get a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you about it.” As they climb the stairs, Sam looks back and up to the monitor, staring at the snow as he leaves.

  The Moon draws closer, blanking out the heavens, itself a gray-yellow sky as the capsule races toward its point of maximum gravitational encounter. Tom, using handles positioned on the exterior, pulls himself to a compartment door, four-feet by three-feet. He removes a tool from a pocket of his suit, secured with a tether, and inserts it into a recess in the capsule skin near a corner of the door, then turns it one revolution and does the same in a recess at the opposite corner. After replacing the tool in its pocket, he grabs hold of a rotating handle and turns it until it unlocks, opening the door. He reaches in and slides out a platform holding a scale model of the Apollo Lunar Excursion Module, the Spider, as its original designers affectionately called it; a clumsy, boxy contraption, functionality at its homeliest, and here true to smallest detail, gold foil-wrapped landing struts included. Releasing latches secured to each landing strut, he frees the LEM, also attached to the capsule with an umbilical, and allows it to float off the platform. Inside the compartment door there’s a control panel he activates with a master arming switch, illuminating a green light near a key pad. Using a pencil-like object attached to it, he enters commands into the system. The LEM’s position lights come on as well as a tiny floodlight that illuminates the top section. Tom pulls the LEM closer and rotates it so the top faces him, exposing a cylindrical cavity.

  Francine sits at the edge of her bed and holds in her hands her favorite photo of Noah, the one where he sits joyfully in a supermarket coin-operated spaceship, squealing as it rocks him. In the photo, Tom crouches behind the little astronaut, his hand on his back for safety and support, looking at him with adoration. As she does nearly every night, Francine wipes her eye, then reaches to put the picture back on the nightstand, but stops as something stirs. Instead, she places the picture under her pillow and lays her head down on it while looking out the glass doors to the moonlit ocean outside. Francine closes her eyes, searching for what peace sleep occasionally gives her.

  Tom has taken the canister from the mesh bag and stills over his son’s remains, trying his best to say a final goodbye. Though very little has made sense since Noah passed, this moment, to which the entire effort was directed, makes the most. How one agonizes over the death of a child, agony that writhes and swirls around unanswered questions, unfulfilled dreams, feelings of failure, the abyss of never-ending loss. All the things Tom was never able to give his boy. Well, here, now, in this great adventure, one simple dream of a little son is to be made true. In such a sad way, Noah made it to the Moon.

  Tom clutches the canister to his chest, then slides it into the fitted cavity of the LEM, pushing it down until a spring locks it in place. He rotates the LEM, removes the umbilical, plugs it into the control panel, and pushes the LEM away. Tom enters commands into the panel that bring up “LEM SYNC” on a digital display. A few more entries flash “ATTITUDE ALIGN”.

  The LEM has drifted some 30 yards, the capsule shrinking against a canvas of stars. Tiny bursts of air from control jets erect the LEM parallel to the lunar surface.

  Tom makes another entry, this time annunciating “DESCENT ALIGN”. He turns to see the LEM against its backdrop of passing craters, rotating to a deceleration attitude, its engine facing the capsule and angling the LEM downward. The final command: DESCENT BURN.

  The LEM’s engine ignites, and it shrinks slowly in the distance.

  Tom closes his eyes as the LEM disappears to a pinpoint. He drifts away to images of Noah, Francine, and himself during their times as a family, some individual portraits, some together; Noah’s birthdays and other precious moments of his short life, and the short but treasured memories they shared. Tom remembers a song he heard after Noah died.

  I think I’ll go to Heaven,

  There I will lay me down.

  Leave all the pain behind me,

  Bury it in the ground.

  Maybe they’ll talk about me,

  I pray it won’t be lies.

  Tell them I went to Heaven.

  Heaven is in your eyes.

  When the LEM reaches a few hundred feet above the surface, the canister ejects and tumbles in partial-gravity slow motion, end over end. It hits the surface, spraying a cloud
of moondust, bouncing back up with it.

  I think I’ll go to Heaven,

  I heard it’s peaceful there.

  They don’t allow your troubles.

  Everyone’s had their share.

  When I can be someone who,

  Never needs a disguise.

  Then I will be in Heaven.

  Heaven is in your eyes.

  As the canister tumbles, the top opens and Noah’s ashes fling into a rotating pinwheel, mixing his remains with lunar dust raised by the impact, and they slowly settle back down, forever.

  People in Heaven,

  Never look back.

  Higher and higher,

  The past fades to black.

  I think I’ll go to Heaven,

  Sail on into the night.

  Watch as He sets my spirit free.

  Watch as my heart takes flight.

  Maybe I am too simple,

  Maybe I am too wise.

  Maybe I’ll go to Heaven.

  Heaven is in your eyes.

  Tom finds himself standing on Main Street in Disneyland. Looking down, he sees he’s dressed as he was before he donned the spacesuit, but the suit is gone. It is night; no one else is there. The streets are wet, the glow of lampposts reflected in the shining pavement, but there is no rain. He stands still, not understanding.

  Tom looks around, then down the street toward Main Street Plaza. This place is so familiar to him. The times he came with his son flood back to him, the joy on the little boy’s face, the spinning frenzy of the crowds, the parades. But none of that is here now.

  A dream? No, he knows dreams all too well. Hardly asleep, he feels more alive than life itself; all at once there is no boundary to him. He is everywhere, and nowhere. He is.

  Has he passed, he wonders? Oh, God! There’s no breath in him! He’s not breathing! There is no air, yet he’s still alive, beyond alive. There is no breath, yet he smells cotton candy and popcorn, but there is none.

  Tom notices movement in the Plaza and begins walking toward it, hardly moving at first, barely able to feel his body, but then walking quickly, finally running. As he reaches the Plaza he stops, seeing what before was only a shadow. In front of him stands Pluto, as he’d seen him other times, seven feet tall, walking among the crowd, but now he is different. The costume looks the same, but he’s not smiling. Nor is he frowning, simply expressionless. Pluto looks at him, then turns and continues walking slowly toward Tomorrow Land.

  Tom closes his eyes, wondering if when he opens them this will all go away. But he doesn’t want it to go away. Where in God’s name am I? He opens his eyes again, finding nothing changed, weakly backs up to a bench, and supports himself as he sits down, laying his face in his hands. Then in the faint distance he hears something that grabs at his heart, as if to make it burst. It’s the voice of a little boy.

  “Daddy! Come on! Over here!”

  Tom freezes. It’s the voice of a little boy, certainly. A voice that has haunted his mind and his soul in a wasteland where it’s absence has become an intolerable, aching silence. It is Noah’s voice.

  “Daddy! Over here!”

  Tom forces himself to stand and he looks toward Tomorrow Land where the voice echoes. He begins walking, faster.

  “Noah?”

  By now he’s running again, straining, dragging behind him years and years of heartache, and as he enters Tomorrow Land he sees another figure standing half in light, half in dark near a lamppost. This time it’s Pinocchio, with the same expressionless face. Pinocchio looks at him, then turns his head toward Tomorrow Land. Tom stops again, watching, then looks where Pinocchio is looking, and sees in the distance something that has never been in Tomorrow Land.

  True, there was a Rocket to Mars, ages ago when he was a child, long since gone before Noah was born. Now there’s a different kind of rocket. It looks familiar, and yes, it comes to him. It’s the rocket ship Noah had drawn for him so many times, now bathed in colored floodlights, standing a hundred feet high. But this one is real. Or is it? There’s a crooked white picket fence around it, and inside the fence cartoon trees and flowers and fluorescent green grass, just like in the drawing. But that’s not all. Standing in the narrow gateway of the fence, is Noah.

  Noah waves. “Daddy! It’s me!”

  “Noah?” he says. “ Honey, is that you?”

  Tom walks toward him in disbelief, not caring because if it isn’t real, it surely feels that way, and that’s good enough. He runs toward his son, who also runs toward him until they meet and Tom scoops him in his arms and embraces him tight, closing his eyes, though the tears pour out. Noah hugs his father’s neck and as Tom kisses his cheek, he cries, “Oh, Noah. Oh, my God. I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  “And I love you, son. I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

  “I do know, Daddy. I do.”

  Tom puts him down and looks at him, seeing he’s dressed in a shiny jumper with rockets and planets and stars all over it. The thought by now occurs, as inconceivable as it all is, that he’s wearing his favorite one-piece pajamas, transformed into a little boy’s spacesuit, a transformation which surely took place many times in Noah’s dreams. Tom looks around, reeling in confusion. He sees, rising from the vibrant green grass, a flagpole. Waving briskly at its top is a flag of Melody’s drawing, this impossibly wonderful touch charged further by the fact he feels no wind at all. He stares at his boy, not knowing what to say.

  “I... I’m so confused. I don’t understand.”

  “I know, Daddy. Don’t try to. Not right now.”

  “But I—”

  “Daddy, I came to tell you I don’t want you to be sad anymore.” He leads his father over to a bench. “Here, sit down.”

  Tom sits and looks into his son’s eyes, searching, as Noah sits next to him. “I want to believe this is really happening. But, lately—”

  “You’re wondering about the things you’ve been seeing. Like the boy in Grandpa’s shop.”

  If there were air, Tom would gasp. “You know about that? But, how—”

  “It’s inscape. That’s what the poet Hopkins called it.”

  “Inscape?”

  “Julia told me about it, near the end, when she was teaching me how to write poems. It’s being able to see what something really is. The true nature of it.”

  Tom stands and walks a few feet away. He leans forward, his hand on one hip, then turns around. “Why?”

  “After, I saw how you and Mama were, and I asked him to help you. He gave you that.”

  “Who did?”

  Noah doesn’t answer. Instead he looks over at the rocket. “It’s time for you to go on with your life now.”

  Tom walks back and sits again, placing his hand on Noah’s leg. “Son, how can I go on? How can I?” Anger wells up in him. “You died the day before your ninth birthday.”

  “No, Daddy. I was born again on that day.” Noah looks through Tom’s eyes, beyond. “I died on September eleventh. I died on November twenty-second. I died on December seventh and October first and August sixth and August ninth and July twenty-seventh, and a thousand times thousands of times.”

  Tom closes his eyes, not knowing, yet somehow understanding, somewhere new. Noah reaches up with one hand and touches Tom’s face with the other, and Tom is shot through with a flash of light, unlike any light he’s ever seen, this from inside. The light explodes into a spectrum of colors, spreading like glowing rivers through the veins of his soul.

  Noah stands and faces him as Tom opens his eyes. “Things are different here, and someday you’ll know. We pray in colors, we hear in wonderful dreams, we see in love, we feel in music.”

  “Noah, my precious son. Help me. Help me understand.”

  “You wanted to know about silver.”

  “Yes. Yes I did.”

  Noah smil
es a bright smile, sparkling. “Remember when I was four? I asked you how a mirror worked, how I could see myself in it?”

  “Of course, honey. It was in the basement. It was that old stand-up mirror. You kept walking around the back, expecting to find yourself on the other side.”

  “Yeah, and there was a little broken piece at the bottom. So you took a screwdriver and pulled off the glass and showed me it was just silver. It was the silver, like magic. Ever since then it was my favorite color, because it’s like both black and white at the same time. It’s a color, but really it’s all colors because everything’s reflected in it. It becomes whatever is in front, and makes a whole new world behind. It makes us see ourselves, our world, in a different way. I saw you and me, standing there that day, and for the first time I saw how much you loved me. I saw it in the mirror. It was in the silver.”

  Tom closes his eyes. “Thank you, Noah.” He hugs his son again. “What do I do now?”

  “You’ll know what to do, Daddy.”

  “But, I can’t get back, I—”

  “You’ll know.”

  Tom spins inside, falling. “What about Mama?”

  “Mama knows.”

  “What do I say about this? Am I supposed to tell anybody? Am I supposed to say something?” he asks, falling faster.

  Noah looks into his eyes, and there Tom sees a righteous anger coming through from somewhere, from someone. An anger infused with love, an anger so dark and at the same time so full of light that Tom grips the bench as if he’d be blown off to oblivion.

  “Tell them to stop it. Stop the killing. Stop the hurting. Tell them to wake up, and treasure every moment, before it’s too late.” Noah looks up at the rocket and then down to two characters standing on each side of the gate. One is the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, the other Tinkerbell. Mickey motions with his wand. “I have to go now.”

  Tom panics, getting on his knees. “No! I can’t let you go again! I can’t!”

  Noah looks back at his father. “Remember when I used to ask you what heaven was like?”