by T. C. Boyle
“Sure,” I say, nodding vigorously, though my head hurts and I have no idea what I’m agreeing to, and why I think of the brandy in that moment I don’t know, but I’m wishing I had it there to hand across the desk and win a smile from her and maybe a thank-you for all I’ve done and will do, without stint, on into the future. And forestall her too, just to give me time to think—but I can’t think. I’m sick. I can barely keep my eyes open. Get me out of here, that’s what I’m thinking. Just get me out of here.
“What you’ve got to do, Linda, is you’ve got to talk her out of this. You’re her best friend, she’ll listen to you—”
I almost want to laugh out loud: talk her out of it? I’ve done nothing but talk, doesn’t she realize that? “I’ve tried,” I say, the ship sinking right before my eyes, all hands lost and the captain going down with her. “Believe me, right from the beginning, I mean, from the day I found out—”
Judy, hair and makeup flawless though it’s well past the end of the day, flashes the letter opener, this time aiming it at my heart. She says, “Try harder.”
I wind up missing breakfast the next morning, still groggy and played-out from my little bout with Mexico, and already the phone’s ringing—Judy, wondering where I am and when I’m going to get to the glass for my tête-à-tête with Dawn because she really can’t overemphasize just what this means to everybody, to the mission, to her. And I’m listening, believe me. Do her bidding and I’m in. Fail her and see how I like watching Rita Nordquist or Tricia Berner take my place come Mission Three closure. That much is clear. The problem is, how am I going to do it? The feint I’d made at talking Dawn into going through with the abortion was only a way of leading her around to the inevitability of having the baby—outside, in the hospital, where she’d be safe and I could take her place as MDA and she could come visit me at the glass and wave the little newborn’s perfect little fingers at me, his beaming Aunt Linda, the Mission Two Terranaut. I’d be the one milking the goats and thumbs-upping for the cameras, I’d be the one inside and fast-tracked for Mission Three—which would be the first legitimate mission, the first one to count, because it would be the only one to date that wouldn’t have to break closure. I’d see to that. Even if I had to personally force the pill down the throats of the other three women—or maybe Mission Control would just go ahead and sterilize us all and make things easier on everybody.
I’m not really up for eating anything, but I down two glasses of orange juice in quick succession and force myself to nibble at an untoasted Pop-Tart on the walk over to Mission Control, where I arrive just under an hour late (but then this is supposed to be the second of my two days off, so who’s to complain?). Judy’s there—I can see her in her office, mouthing things into the telephone. I’m feeling better, if far from normal, and I’ve brought my sombrero along so everybody can ask about my Mexican adventure and what I think about the integrity of the water delivery systems down there south of the border. Gavin never did get his bottle of brandy, by the way, but I’m thinking maybe I’ll give it to him tonight, after work, depending on how I’m feeling and whether I’ll be able to act on any romantic possibilities the gift might suggest, but then I picture the way I must have looked—and smelled—the night before and think better of it. Give it a few days, that’s what I’m thinking.
But to the matter at hand. Dawn. I’m hoping to catch her during morning break, in something like an hour and a half, and till then I bend over my desk and do what amounts to some serious doodling on a lined yellow legal pad, all the while marshaling my arguments like a prosecutor going into trial. If I feel helpless, aligning myself with the second in command and against (or at least behind the back of) our God and Creator, I try to put it out of my mind, picturing Dawn, all the great times we had together, how close we were, how she’ll do this for me, how she’s got to once she understands what’s on the line here. For me, for once.
Ten-forty-five and I’m at the glass, pressing the buzzer that nobody pays any attention to, hoping to get lucky because this is hardly the time anybody would be expecting visitors. I could have called from Mission Control, but I want to do this at the glass, where Dawn can see me and what I’m going through, and if she hasn’t heard about my trip to Mexico, I’m wearing the sombrero as a conversation starter. For a full five minutes there’s no response, but then a face emerges from behind the curtains—Gretchen’s—and I make urgent gestures to draw her to the phone, which she picks up with a questioning frown.
“I need to see Dawn,” I tell her. “It’s urgent. Really urgent. Can you go get her?’
Gretchen’s face goes through a quick shuffle of emotions, from wonderment to intrigue to irritation. “But it’s break—” she says, as if I’ve interrupted some holy ritual.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. But can you get her?”
It takes her a moment, assessing me, no doubt reviewing in her mind the catastrophe named Dawn and what her latest mood swing or stance or whatever you want to call it is going to mean to the mission. “Yeah,” she says finally, slow as syrup, “sure, I’ll get her. But what’s with you”—gesturing at the great straw boat slipping down over my glasses—“you been to Mexico?”
I nod.
“How I envy you. Wow. Beautiful country, especially when you get into the rain forests down south along the east coast, down into Belize, I mean. Did I ever tell you I spotted a jaguar there once—in Belize?”
“Great,” I say, “you’ve got to tell me all about it, but right now? I really need to see Dawn.”
Three minutes later, as if in some magic trick, Gretchen’s vanished and Dawn’s there, easing onto the stool like a woman already so far gone she has to shift her weight carefully, though you can hardly see she’s pregnant, not if you aren’t looking for it. “Hi,” I say, and she says “Hi” back.
“What’s with the hat?” she asks, peering through the glass to get a better look. “I like it. It looks good on you, but maybe it’s a little too big? I mean all the way around? Almost makes you look”—and she laughs—“like a toadstool or something.”
“Come on, Dawn, there’s no call for that.”
“Only kidding. Can’t I even make a joke anymore? Jesus, Linda, you sure are quick to take offense these days.”
I want to jump on that, want to give her a riff on it, light her up, let her know just how and why and to what unplumbable depths the offense really reaches, but I don’t. I say, “So what is this insanity I hear about you not only having this baby but doing it inside? After all we said about it, the dangers, I mean? You really trust Richard? A thousand things could wrong—and then what?”
She just smiles, looking serene—or no, looking spaced-out, as if she’s lost all sense of who she is or what she’s doing to herself, to the mission, to me. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“What bridge? Death? A what, a deformed baby, because Richard can’t get his act together? You’ve got to listen to me. For us, for our friendship. Aren’t we friends? Aren’t we best friends?”
“Of course we are. And we always will be. And when you’re in here I’ll be there for you, I promise. But really, I don’t see what you’re so upset about—it’s all decided. G.C. himself said so. Think about it—it’ll be fine, it will. And like I said, women have been giving birth down through the ages—”
“Right. And dying in the process. It’s not like we’re stuck in a Victorian novel, you know—right out there, right down the road in Tucson, it’s state of the art. I already checked it out, the hospital there. It’s state of the art, Dawn, I’m telling you—” If an edge of desperation has crept into my voice, Dawn doesn’t hear it—or doesn’t care. She just sits there, ever so slightly swollen in the abdomen beneath the folds of her oversized T-shirt (which, I realize, she must have appropriated from one of the men, from Ramsay).
She’s not responding. Not giving me what I want, not budging an inch. What she says next is, “And I forgive you, I really do.”
“Forgiv
e me? For what?”
“For outing me. For telling Judy. It was you, wasn’t it?”
I want to deny it, steer things back on course, but there’s no use: she can see right through me. “I had to,” I say, pleading now. “For your sake. So you wouldn’t have to keep on torturing yourself, so we could address this as a team, the way we always have, and—and find a solution that’s best for everybody.”
“I was so mad at you, furious really—I can’t tell you how mad.” She sets her mouth to show me just how deep the rift was, or is, but then her jaw relaxes and her eyes go vacant again. “But now, I don’t know. Maybe it was for the best.”
It’s hot. My stomach begins to cramp again. I should be in bed. I should be a thousand miles away from here—Hawaii, why didn’t I go to Hawaii? Why don’t I? Like tomorrow? “Dawn,” I say, cry, plead, “can’t you just listen—?”
“Oh, Jesus”—and here she slaps her head in a what-am-I-thinking kind of way. “I didn’t tell you yet—”
“Tell me what?”
I watch the smile bloom on her face, her eyes focused now, right in the moment, right there with me. “You didn’t hear? Really? Nobody told you?”
“No, nobody told me anything—what are you talking about?”
She holds it a beat more, then brings the phone to her lips. “Linda,” she says, “Linda—I’m getting married.”
Dawn Chapman
We both wanted a simple ceremony, but with G.C. pulling the strings, nothing’s ever simple. The whole thing happened so fast I barely had time to think, if you want to know the truth. From the time I dug in and let Vodge know I’d made up my mind to have the baby no matter what anybody said, to the lightbulb going off in his head and our meeting at the glass with G.C. the next night—the night Judy was thankfully off in Phoenix at some fund-raiser and powerless to do anything about it—I felt like I was on a Saturn rocket shooting up into the stratosphere. Whoosh, ignition, liftoff, and suddenly we were looking down on everything in creation, two gods, Vajra and Eos, soaring hand in hand. I was trembling, actually trembling, so high on the moment I could have been on drugs. And yes, it was romantic, just like the press release makes it out to be, Vodge taking charge, standing by me, in love with me and ready to prove it to the world. But just for the record, since what came out of it is so deeply ingrained in the mythos of Mission Two and myths do tend to paper over the reality: it wasn’t Vodge who proposed to me but G.C. Or, actually, G.C. who proposed that Vodge propose to me.
We really hadn’t thought beyond the moment—the term “marriage” wasn’t even part of our vocabulary at that point. All I could think was that here was the end of our problems, if only we could sway G.C. and make him see that having the baby inside was the only solution—and Vodge could, I was sure he could, and I’d do my part too, ready to burst into tears on cue, and I didn’t care whether that was unprofessional or not. Everything was coming at me in a rush, especially after all those crippling weeks of shame and suspense, and I was in a state. Nobody would talk to me—nobody would even look at me. I went through my chores like a robot. The day seemed to go on forever.
When Vodge left me to go off and arrange the meeting with G.C. I didn’t know what to do with myself—I certainly couldn’t eat, though he brought a plate to my room. I picked up a book, put it down again. I paced, stared at the walls, kept running my hands over the bump in my abdomen as if I couldn’t fathom what it was doing there, which wasn’t far from the truth. I wasn’t denying the process, only the timing of it. Yes, we’re animals, hormonally programmed to reproduce—reproduction is, in a real sense, the only purpose of life—but why did it have to happen to me? And why now? Why not a year from now, two years, never? I watched the clock till Vodge came back for me at eight-thirty, dinner over and everybody else off doing whatever—out of the loop, unconsulted—and as we went down the stairs and through the orchard, we kept looking over our shoulders to make sure nobody was watching. (Even if they were, I told myself, they would have assumed we were headed for the fish ponds or the animal pens, which wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary for that time of day.)
When we were in the clear, we made a sharp right for the visitors’ window, Vodge steering me with one hand pressed to the small of my back. I was sweating. My stomach was in knots. I was so worked up I was practically hyperventilating—not only because the sudden appearance of Diane or Gretchen or anybody who might be out and about would ruin everything (this most emphatically was not a group moment), but at the prospect of facing G.C. Again. It was bad enough to have him chew you out over the phone or on the PicTel screen, but to have him there in the flesh was all the worse. He never came to the glass, not unless he was squiring some celebrity or dignitary around, and now he was coming for us.
The goats had heard us as we passed by and were giving voice to their complaints, filling the void with their raggedy bleats. They’d already been milked and fed, of course, but they wanted more, just like any other creature deprived under the glass, except maybe the slug-eating snakes, but then I didn’t know much about them and hardly ever saw one. Maybe they were doing just fine, maybe the slugs were so plentiful they went to bed with full bellies every night, but the rest of us? We were hungry. And, it occurred to me, if G.C. gave his consent we were going to be hungrier still.
It was dark in the little cubicle by the window and Vodge flicked on the lamp there (strictly low-wattage, just enough so the visitor could see inside, but not so bright as to compromise the intimacy we all craved, and of course I was thinking of Johnny then, but the thought—and his image with it—flew right out of my head as quickly as it had appeared). Vodge pulled out the stool for me and slid it in beside the phone and I perched myself on it, one foot propped on the rung, and we both stared out into the darkness of the world, waiting for G.C. to appear around the corner and pronounce our fate. Vodge had already outlined the plan for him over the phone in the command center—i.e., have the baby inside, no breaking of closure, no “procedure,” even the rumor of which would have doomed us in America’s eyes, and milk the whole thing for its PR value—and G.C. at least listened, though he was still stuck on the direct course of action, the one he’d bullied Richard into and me too, or so he’d assumed. He was a towering figure, and towering figures don’t like to be contradicted—I was aware of that, never more aware of it, but we’d made up our minds and for me, at least, there was no going back. As I’d told Linda, if they wanted negative publicity, if they kept pushing me, they’d get enough to kill the next six missions dead in the cradle.
But here came G.C., detaching himself from the dense shadow of the superstructure and loping along the path toward us. He was dressed in some sort of safari outfit I’d never seen on him before, khaki shorts and shirt, his kneecaps palely flashing and his beard flaring sporadically under the lamps along the path. Then he was standing at the glass, beneath the dim light fixture there, lifting the phone to his ear and peering in at us.
Vodge picked up the receiver, but G.C. waved him off, and I could hear his voice thinly resonating over the line even as I watched his lips form the words: “No, no, it’s E. I want to talk to.”
I gave him a nervous smile, took up the receiver and whispered, “Hi.” And then, because I couldn’t stop myself, because I wanted to be gracious, ingratiate myself, I added, “Thanks for coming out. Thanks for listening to us. At this hour, I mean—”
He was staring through the glass at me, noncommittal, wearing my reflection like a mask, which made me think of the time (an eternity ago, it seemed like now) he’d summoned me to the command center to let me know I should be extra-friendly to Gyro—for the sake of the mission. And now he’d come down out of his office at eight-thirty on a Saturday night to stand there in the heat on the other side of the glass when I’m sure he had better things to do—for the sake of the mission, yes, but for our sake as well. Terranauts were disciplined, duty-bound, given over wholly to the mission’s objectives, but they were human too, and he understood
that—or had to be made to understand it. “I hear”—a glance for Vodge—“there’s no point in trying to talk sense to you, is that right, E.?”
I just nodded. But I didn’t drop my eyes.
“You’ve really thought this out? Because you’re not the only two involved here—you’re part of a team, don’t forget that, and team harmony trumps everything. You’re asking six hungry people to tighten their belts another notch and somehow come up with the extra calories it’s going to take to sustain you through this? I mean, I don’t operate by fiat here, and I could say yes just to have them say no, and then where are we? Right back where we started.”
I could say yes. That was all I heard, all I needed to hear. My heart stopped knocking at my ribs. I didn’t want to smile, not yet, but I couldn’t help myself. I said, “We’ll work with them, we’ll do everything we can, we’ll find a way—”
“Easy to say now, but what about next winter when the light fades and there’s not enough to go around, because the surest way to failure here is to present an undernourished baby to the world.”
I wanted to protest—and Vodge was trying to grab the phone away from me—but G.C. held up his hand to silence us.
“I’m talking theoreticals,” he said. “It’s going to be a bitch—and the biggest gamble we’ve ever taken, because there are so many things that can go catastrophically wrong.” He paused to give us a minute to think about that, a premature baby, a dead baby, a baby that never stops shrieking for want of food. “But the upside is beyond belief. The minute we announce, we’ll get coverage like you’ve never seen, like none of us has ever seen, I mean the cameras’ll never stop clicking—you ready for that? Both of you?”