Then he blew out my candle. I think he meant it to be romantic, but it left us standing in a darkness of my making.
SEVENTEEN
INSULATING CONCERN HEATS HOUSE FOR $12 A MONTH IN A 2-YEAR TEST
KANSAS CITY, KS, July 14, 1956—In cooperation with the UN’s Climate Committee, the Owens-Corning Fiberglass Corporation undertook a two-year test program involving 150 new houses in all climatic regions of the United States, Europe, and parts of Africa. The test homes were “comfort-engineered” and required trees and trellises for shade, a wide roof overhang or heat-repellent screening, and attic ventilation.
Before we got home from the synagogue, I needed to take my coat off. It felt like it must be in the mid-seventies. On the one hand, thank God it was finally warming up. On the other … I knew what the warming meant. We were hitting the beginning of the greenhouse effect.
I stood, my coat over my arm, as Nathaniel crouched to open our mailbox. He tipped his hat back on his head. “Huh. I wonder what this is…”
Inside the box, a large padded envelope nearly filled the entire space. He wrestled it free, and the thing seemed to expand as it came out of the box. The last edge came loose suddenly, and Nathaniel lost his balance and fell back on his rump.
“You okay?” I bent to retrieve a couple of other envelopes that had dropped on the floor.
“Fine, fine…” He reseated his hat and clambered to his feet, staring at the envelope. “It’s for you.”
I stopped in the process of slipping the other envelopes into my purse. “Me?”
“From NBC.” He tucked it under one arm and bent down to shut our mailbox. “Betcha someone got fan mail.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s probably just a thank-you gift or some such thing.” We started up the stairs, but my heart was pounding before we even reached the first landing. I wanted to believe that no one had watched the show.
And yet, when we got to the apartment and settled in, the giant envelope taking up most of the kitchen table, I circled around it as if it were a cobra or something equally deadly. Nathaniel sat down at the table and pulled out the rocket booster design he’d been working on when I’d talked him into leaving the office yesterday.
“That looks suspiciously like work…” I opened the refrigerator and rummaged through it, trying to figure out what we’d have for lunch.
“And you look like you’re about to start cooking.” He looked up at me and winked. “You knew I was a terrible Jew when you married me.”
“I just made a comment.”
“Mm-hm … and you don’t get to use Shabbat as a weapon if you’re going to ignore it too.”
“Fine.” I shut the refrigerator door. For me, the observation was as much about discipline and reminding myself of who I was as anything else. It had seemed important after the Holocaust, and then again after the Meteor, because Grandma would have …
Grief pops up at the strangest times. “I’ll cook after sundown, which isn’t until nine tonight, if you’ll take an actual day off.”
“Wait … let me see if I understand this. You’re trying to convince me to not work by offering to not feed me?” Nathaniel tapped his pencil against his chin. “Hm … there’s something not quite right here.”
“Oh, I’ll feed you. Cold cuts and guilt.” I laughed and pulled the envelope toward me. Best to get it over with. Sitting down opposite him, I patted the giant envelope proprietarily. “Besides, I have to see what’s in this.”
He laughed and stood, giving me a kiss on the back of my neck. “I’ll make sandwiches, and if I’m right and it’s fan mail, then…”
“Then what?”
“You’ll have to think of some way to reward me for being right.”
“Righteousness should be a reward in itself.” I pulled the envelope open and more envelopes fell out. “Damn.”
“Ha!” Nathaniel opened the refrigerator and said again, “Ha!”
“Sandwiches, husband.” Some of the envelopes had beautiful penmanship, others had been addressed in actual crayon. Bemused, I picked up one of the crayon-addressed envelopes and laughed aloud. “This is addressed to The Lady Astronaut—well … more accurately, it’s the Laddy Astronot.”
“That will be my new pet name for you.” Nathaniel set a cup of iced tea on the table next to me. “Chicken on rye okay?”
“Mm-hm … a little onion, too, please?” I opened the Laddy Astronot letter and pulled out a sheet of grubby primer paper. “Oh … My heart is going to break. Listen to this: ‘Dere Laddy Astronot I want to go into space to. Do you have a roket ship? I want a rokket ship for Christ mas. Your fred, Sally Hardesty.’ And there’s a picture of a rocket.”
“Just wait until you actually get into space.” Dishes rattled behind me as he worked on the sandwiches. “We’ll have to get a bigger mailbox.”
“If. And that’s a big if, with a lot of other ifs before it.” I put Sally’s letter back in the envelope and set it aside. I wouldn’t be able to answer her until Shabbat was over, but I could triage the letters. I didn’t know if I was going to be able to answer all of them, but at least Sally Hardesty and the other crayon writers.
“I have faith—”
“I thought you were a bad Jew.”
“I have faith in you. Speaking of which, I could use your help on an orbital parameter question.” He pulled a loaf out of the breadbox and set it on the counter.
“Use a cutting board.”
“I was going to.” Releasing the knife he’d grabbed, Nathaniel bent to retrieve the cutting board from under the sink. “I think we can skip the translunar orbit and go straight to a lunar orbit, which would save a lot of time and materials.”
“And risk the astronauts’ lives through inadequate testing?” I pulled another letter toward me and ran my finger under the flap to open it.
Dear Dr. York, I didn’t know that girls were allowed to be doctors …
“I’m not saying we’d skip the Earth orbit, just the translunar one. We’re sending an unmanned mission around the moon to get pictures in September, so we’ll know that orbit can be done. Having someone orbit the moon, though…”
… I would like to be a doctor … “A lunar orbit involves transferring in and out of orbit, which is a whole different set of orbital mechanics. You have to change from the sphere of Earth’s influence to the moon’s and—”
“I know. I’m not asking about the mechanics of it. You already worked out fuel consumption and a flight plan … What I’m asking is if there’s any compelling reason to do the translunar orbit as a manned mission.”
“Seems like something you should be asking Parker.” I slapped the letter down on the table, not even sure why I was irritated with Nathaniel.
“Well, he’s not a physicist, is he?”
Ah … that was it. We’d been here before, where he asked me for advice because he wanted to prove Parker wrong about something. It reminded me too much of my college days, and being used as a tool to keep young men in line in math class. Nathaniel only knew about that in the most general sense, mostly as stories that I managed to make sound funny.
I took a slow breath and folded the letter carefully. Pressing down on the fold with my thumbnail, I creased the paper with a fair bit of vigor. “Sorry. I just … Okay. The primary reason to do the translunar orbit first is so that if we’re wrong about fuel consumption for the transit, it gives the crew a larger margin of error for getting home. And they only get one shot.”
“But the math—”
“Sweetie … I’m a physicist, but I’m also a pilot. If you’re asking me to tell you that skipping steps is okay, I’m not going to do it. They get one shot at getting home. If the math is off, even a little, and they don’t have the fuel to correct, then they go shooting past the Earth, or burn up on reentry.” I shoved the letter into the envelope. “And I also don’t want to work on Shabbat.”
“You’re answering fan mail. Doesn’t that involve writ ing?” His voice was consciously li
ghthearted, and I loved him for making the effort.
“I’m reading, not writing.”
He set a sandwich next to me, the bread sliced in a diagonal. Leaning down, he kissed the top of my head. “You’re right. And I’m sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have gotten cranky.”
“Well, let’s eat lunch, and then…” He walked to the shelf and pulled down a book. “And then, I’ll read.”
Narrowing my eyes, I stacked the letters on the side of the table until after lunch. “I see the word Mars on that.”
He laughed and showed me the cover. “It’s a novel. Clemmons lent it to me. Says it’s a comedy, at least in terms of spaceflight. Does that count as taking the day off?”
“Yes.” I beamed up at him. “Yes. And thank you.”
* * *
We had been sitting in the “dark room” with nothing to do for the last two hours and twenty-three minutes—and yes, we were all counting—as we waited for them to resolve an “issue” so the countdown clock could continue. It wasn’t even anything wrong with the rocket itself, just an automatic cutoff that tripped when it shouldn’t have at T-minus thirty seconds and holding. It had to be worse for the three men strapped into the giant Jupiter V rocket outside.
At the Capsule Communicator station, Stetson Parker tossed a tennis ball into the air, his headset pushed back behind one ear. Every couple of minutes he grinned and said something into his comm. As CAPCOM, he was in charge of filtering all the information from the scores of engineers and computers down to the stream that the astronauts needed in their capsule.
Was he talking to Jean-Paul Lebourgeois, Randy B. Cleary, or Halim “Hotdog” Malouf? For the first time, none of the astronauts going up were Americans, and to my eternal surprise, Parker had turned out to be a polyglot. French, Italian, and, of all things, Gaelic.
Helen leaned across our shared table. “Hey. You going to the 99s this weekend?”
I shook my head and straightened the pencils on my side of the table. “I’ll be wiped out after this.”
She tsked and turned back to the chess game that she was playing with Reynard Carmouche.
That tsk had been a masterful use of a single noise to convey disappointment and resignation. I lifted my head and stared at her dimly lit profile. “What?”
“Last week you said you were trying to stay rested for the launch.” She moved a pawn a space forward and Carmouche cursed in French.
“I was.” The graph paper stuck to my fingers as I picked it up to tap it straight on the edge of the table. “And you’ve got your solo license, so it’s not like you need me in order to fly anymore.”
At this Carmouche looked up. “You can fly?”
“Yes.” Helen pointed at the board. “Are you going to play or just stare?”
“I am thinking!” he protested, crouching closer to the board as if putting his nose between the pieces would solve the puzzle for him.
Helen turned back to me and leaned across the table. The desk light focused down on our papers, leaving an unearthly uplit glow on her face. “Why don’t you come to the 99s anymore?”
“I—I just … there are a lot of new members.” Our core group still came, and Ida and Imogene had joined us, but after Mr. Wizard and the articles about me, we’d gotten a sudden influx of members. There were only so many times I could handle being asked for an autograph or to pose with someone. I shrugged and straightened my pencils again. “I just … I miss the small group.”
Helen nodded, tapping her fingers on the desk. “Give it time. They lose interest if you aren’t there. The ones that are just tourists, I mean.”
The tension sighed out of me. Thank God for friends who understood my fears without me having to spell them out. Especially not here, in the dark room, where I wanted to be as professional as possible.
Carmouche finally moved a knight. Helen turned back to the game and immediately moved a bishop. “Check.”
Stetson Parker’s voice cut through the room from the CAPCOM desk. “What’s the word on the delay? Prayer time is coming up for Malouf.”
“He cannot get out of his chair to pray.” Clemons jabbed a cigar toward Parker.
“He’s not asking to. He just wants to avoid being mid-prayer if the countdown starts again.”
“When the countdown starts, we shall let him know.” Clemons turned away from Parker and barked, “York! Status!”
Nathaniel looked up from the console he was leaning over. He had a telephone pressed to one ear and was jotting down something, his nose wrinkled in concentration. He held up one hand to silence Clemons. God, I loved my husband.
Parker snorted. “I’ll tell him to go ahead and pray. Might speed things up.” He pulled the mic back into place and murmured to the astronauts.
I glanced at the big clock on the wall. If this went another hour, we’d lose our launch window and have to wait until tomorrow. It wouldn’t be the first time we’d scrubbed a flight, but it was never pleasant.
“Checkmate.” Helen leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Checkmate is go.”
The Frenchman’s jaw hung open, and he stared at the board as if he were tracing all of the steps that had led to his doom. I stood and cracked my back. “I don’t know why you keep trying, Dr. Carmouche.”
“Someday … someday, I must beat her. It is simply the law of averages, no?” He rubbed his forehead, still staring at the board. “Confirmed checkmate.”
“York—Elma York.” Parker gripped the ball he’d been tossing in one hand and beckoned me with the other. The harsh light of the comm desk threw heavy shadows under his brows.
Helen and I exchanged glances before I crossed the room to Parker. Nathaniel, still on his call, watched me with enough intensity that the room started to heat up. I put on my most careful neutral face and stopped in front of Parker. “Yes?”
“Hang on.” Having called me over, he now made me wait as he listened, nodding at something one of the other astronauts said.
I stood, resisting the urge to brush my skirt smooth, fidget with my hands, or do anything, really, but wait. Nathaniel’s gaze still burned the right side of my body, but I didn’t turn to look at him.
“Got it. Elle se tient ici … Ouais, ouais. Vous et moi à la fois.” He released the talk button on the mic and sat back in the chair. The ball flew up from his grasp and smacked back down into his palm. “Lebourgeois’s wife is doing all the American things. So their daughter is in a Girl Scout troupe, and they want you to come talk to them.”
I blinked a couple of times before I found my voice. “Me?”
“Yeah, they formed a ‘Lady Astronaut’ club. I figured they would want an actual astronaut, but … girls, huh? Kinda adorable that they want to talk to you.” He grinned, showing his dimples, as if that helped. “You’ll do it, right?”
There is no possible way to say “no” to an astronaut who is sitting atop what is, essentially, a giant bomb. Even if I spoke French and could rip the microphone off of Parker, I couldn’t decline. I smiled. “Sure. I’d be happy to do that. Just tell me when.”
Parker turned back to the mic and rattled off more French, “ Elle va le faire, mais Dieu sait ce qu’elle va parler. Les b é b é s dans l’espace, probablement. Les femmes, eh?” Then he listened for a moment before he turned back to me. “His wife is watching from the roof. If you could go chat with her after the launch, he’d appreciate it. It’ll distract his daughter while he’s in space.”
“Sure. Gladly.” The thing was that I didn’t resent Lebourgeois’s wife or his daughter, or even him for that matter. If it were me, I would be thinking of everything I could possibly do to distract Nathaniel and make him more comfortable. It was just Parker and his shit-eating smugness. Yes. Yes. He was the first man into space. Yes. He was a damn good pilot and, in fact, very brave. But he was also a self-serving schmuck. “Soon as I’m finished, I’ll head up to the family area.”
“Great.” He grinned again, all dazzling white teeth. “Se
e if that husband of yours will tell you what’s holding us up.”
“I’m sure he’ll tell us as soon as we’re clear.” I glanced at Nathaniel, who had begun massaging his right temple. That was not a good sign. “And how’s your wife?”
Parker looked down and rolled the ball along the table. “Better. Thank you.”
That was not … that was not the response that I had expected. “I was sorry that she couldn’t make the Wargin dinner.”
“Well. Maybe next time, hm?” He cleared his throat. “You were going to check with your husband? About the launch?”
“Of course.” That was not my job. Of course, my actual job required a rocket to be launched, so I had something to track and compute. I brushed off my skirt and swung away, heading toward Nathaniel. If nothing else, it gave me an excuse to talk to him.
My husband had stopped writing anything but still gripped the pencil in one hand hard enough that his knuckles had turned white. His jaw was set. He stared at the desk while Clemons paced behind him.
Clemons saw me approach and snatched the cigar from his mouth. “What?”
“Colonel Parker had some questions for you, Director Clemons.” It was at best tangential to the truth, but he’d be better able to answer Parker’s questions about the launch than Nathaniel would. Clemons stalked off in response without actually acknowledging me.
My poor husband seemed in danger of stabbing himself with his pencil. And I couldn’t touch him. Not at work, without making everything more complicated for both of us. I stood for a moment, wishing I could rub the tension out of his neck as he nodded and grunted in response to whoever was on the other end of the line.
Taking a breath, I turned and walked back to my station. There was nothing I could do for Nathaniel, and under the circumstances, I was a distraction.
Carmouche was putting his chess pieces back into their case. He looked up as I rejoined the table and leaned in close. In a hushed voice, he said, “That Colonel Parker … he does not like you very much.”
The Calculating Stars Page 15