“There’s always going to be someone who disagrees.”
“Someone with a bomb?” He flopped back onto the bed, pulling me with him. “I think we’re going to relocate the center.”
I was willing to follow Nathaniel to whatever random place his thoughts took him. Turning so that I was on my side, I nestled against him and rested my hand on his chest. “That seems a little extreme.”
“Clemons was already talking about it before this. He was going to use the Orion disaster to try to get us away from population centers.”
“May I put in a request for somewhere equatorial?”
“Still trying to get a vacation, huh?”
“Trying to get better orbital trajectories.” The button on his shirt shifted under my hand, and I rolled my fingers around it. “Where were you thinking?”
“It’s all Clemons. I just build the rockets. While we were waiting for the situation to resolve”—which was such an engineer way to describe a bomber—“Clemons was going on about how many jobs we create … I don’t know. It might actually turn into a bidding war.”
“So, equatorial location and a pony?”
“Heh.” His hand came up behind my back and pulled me closer. “You know … I kept having flashes of what it would have been like if you were on that rocket.”
“Well, that’s a worry you can put out of your head.” I rolled away from him to stare at the pebbled plaster ceiling. It might be the surface of some unfamiliar planet. “Parker declared today that he was going to do everything in his power to keep me from being an astronaut.”
“What?” Nathaniel sat up, staring down at me. “He said what?”
What, exactly, did you think was going to happen when you reported me … I cleared my throat. “He said something about how I was never going into space if he could help it. But, sweetie, don’t say anything about it.”
“Don’t—why the hell wouldn’t I?”
I sat up to face him. “Because it was just him and me. No one else heard, and you know how he can play things off.” As the first man in space, the agency had good reason to want to keep his image spotless. If they had to sacrifice a computer for him? I knew what would happen, and Daddy wasn’t here to make sure it didn’t. “Besides, at the moment, they aren’t even accepting women as astronauts. When they do? Then we’ll talk about it.”
* * *
Two months passed. The U.S. committee that had looked into the crash finally voted to continue the United States involvement with the IAC, in part, I think, because they were afraid the other nations would colonize the moon without us. There were changes, of course, which we implemented over the winter.
Higher security at the IAC required a fancy new electric fence and armed guards roaming the edges. Clemons used the bomb and the Williams farm tragedy like budgetary weapons to get upgrades and add staff.
As Nathaniel predicted, the IAC pushed to relocate the launch facilities to Brazil to limit vulnerabilities. Mind you, we’d asked for this at the beginning, but hadn’t been able to get building a new launch site through the budget because the U.S. was afraid that other countries would use rocket technology for weaponry.
The rockets would be assembled and tested at the Sunflower facility in Kansas, then shipped to the new center near the coast in Brazil for launch. It finally got us near the equator, which was going to help with the moon and Mars programs.
And it meant that the computer department was busy redoing all of our trajectories to account for the new launch site, although it would likely be another two years until it was fully operational. I was hunched over a page double-checking my differential equations when a shadow fell across my desk.
Blinking, I looked up. Nathaniel stood by my desk. He had that serious, constipated expression, as if there were a secret he couldn’t share.
“Sorry to bother you, Elma, but I thought you’d like to see this.” He laid a single sheet on the desk in front of me. “It’s a carbon, so you can keep it.”
Across the table, Basira lifted her head and gasped. She was staring at the same line I was.
PRESS RELEASE: IAC DIRECTOR ANNOUNCES NEW CALL FOR ASTRONAUTS: WOMEN ENCOURAGED TO APPLY.
Someone shrieked. That was me. I had jumped up and thrown my hands into the air like I was some sort of gymnast. Around the room, the other computers had stopped, pencils frozen mid-equation. They were staring at me, and I didn’t care.
“They’re taking women astronauts!”
Pencils, laughter, papers, and hurrahs filled the air. My fellow computers jumped up and hugged each other. We were all laughing and crying and it was like the war had just ended again. I grabbed Nathaniel in a hug that left him gasping. He kissed me, bending me over in a dip that defied gravity.
At the door, engineers poked their heads through the door to see what all the hoopla was about. Bubbles bounced into the room. “What in the—?”
“Lady astronauts!” I shouted from my husband’s arms. “The lady astronauts are headed for orbit!”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“SUPER-FUEL ” TO DRIVE ROCKET INDEFINITELY IN SPACE
April 18, 1957—A “breakthrough” on the path to a super-fuel for rockets that will drive themselves indefinitely with an atomic oxygen captured in the upper atmosphere was reported last week by Peter H. Wyckoff, rocket specialist at the Air Force’s Sunflower Research Center. Oxygen in the upper atmosphere consists of molecular oxygen, each molecule composed of two atoms of the element. However, in the region sixty to seventy miles above the Earth, ultraviolet rays split the molecular oxygen into single atoms. Dr. Wyckoff reported a catalytic agent has been found that would cause the recombination of the atomic oxygen in the upper atmosphere into molecular oxygen, such combination resulting in the release of great amounts of energy.
I had not been to the 99s in months, but the Sunday after Nathaniel put the draft of the press release on my desk, I went. And I took applications with me.
Walking across the tarmac to our hangar, the scent of petrol and black tar whipped around me on the breeze. Such a strange combination of scents to be nostalgic for.
No one was sitting on the picnic bench outside the hangar, which wasn’t surprising, with October’s first chill in the air. Nicole’s Cadillac was parked near the door, so I knew at least one person was there.
Outside the small door set in the bay doors, I stopped, almost tempted to knock. Then I shook my head and pushed the door open. They were using my plane, and I still contributed to the rent, so it wasn’t as if I were a stranger.
I stepped through into laughter that dissipated as I took off my hat.
Pearl looked up from a slice of cake and her gaze widened. “Well, hello, stranger.”
Or maybe I was a stranger. When Pearl stood, she had an obvious bump which said that her triplets would soon have a new sibling. Or two. I waved, a little sheepish that I hadn’t known. “Hi.”
Ida Peaks and Imogene Braggs were at the table, along with some women I didn’t know. There were more planes in the hangar, too. One of the Mustangs seemed to have made its way over. And a P-38 Lightning—whose was that, and how could I become their best friend?
Nicole had been perched on the end of the table with a cigarette held lazily in one hand. She stood when she saw me, smiling. “It’s about damn time.”
And Betty … she kept her gaze fixed on the table.
But Helen bounced up from the table, grinning like I’d given her the best present. “I was just telling them!”
Of course. Helen had been in the computing department when we got the news. “Well, just remember, it’s not public yet. The press release won’t go out until Tuesday.”
“I won’t tell anyone.” Betty spoke to the table. “If that’s what you’re implying.”
To respond or not to respond, that is the question. Whether ’tis nobler to suffer the bait of defensive posturing or to … “Hell, I wasn’t worried about that. You’re good at keeping secrets when you need to.”
Nicole stepped between us. “Now, girls…” She hurried over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re back. You get me hooked on flying again, then up and vanish. It’s too much, really, darling.”
“Anyway.” I fished in my bag. “I have the applications for the astronaut progr—”
Women surrounded me like a bank of clouds. One minute, clear skies; next, zero visibility except for a flurry of white as the pages were whipped away. The laughter that had been present before I came in resurfaced, bouncing off the walls.
Though not all of the cries were of delight. “Advanced degree?” One woman’s shoulders drooped. “I didn’t even go to college.”
As quickly as they had surrounded me, the women dispersed to fill out their applications. I had already filled mine out. It was sitting in a box on the secretary’s desk outside Clemons’s office.
Helen had snatched one from my hands, too. She’d seen the announcement, but not the application form. The grin sagged off her face. “A thousand hours in high-performance aircraft with four hundred of that as pilot-in-command? And fifty hours of jet time? How—that not fair. What woman has that?”
I winced. “I do. A lot of the WASPs do.”
“Chemistry counts? Oh my God. Oh my God.” Ida Peaks bounced on her toes. “I have a master’s in chemistry—and I meet all the qualifications. … goddamn it. Except for the high-performance aircraft.”
Imogene stared at her application as if she were trying to decide whether to kiss it or flush it. “Same … I keep thinking about Sarah Coleman and how she was asked to withdraw her application during the war.”
“They can’t ask us to withdraw if we don’t even qualify.”
Imogene nodded, still staring at the document. “And the reason that only white women qualify is because of that policy decision about the WASPs. This is an extremely neat way to keep the astronaut corps all-white while pretending that it’s open to everyone.”
That hadn’t even occurred to me. I blinked, trying to decide what to do or say, but before I could get my thoughts in order, Ida snorted.
“Well, that’s bullshit. And I bet Dr. King will have things to say about it. Very loud and pointed things.” Ida turned back to the table. “I need a pen.”
With a flourish, Imogene raised her pen. “Got one right here, and you can have it when I’m finished filling this damn thing out. Fifty hours pilot-in-command of a jet aircraft my aunt Fanny’s ass. The spaceships aren’t even jet powered, are they, Elma?”
“They’re not.” I hesitated, not wanting to promise something I couldn’t deliver. It had taken this long just to get women even considered. “I’ll mention it to Nathaniel and see if he can convince the director to change the requirements. The forms haven’t gone out to anyone except you all yet. I think.”
From the table, Betty said, “They’ll send it out with the press release. Once that happens, it’ll be set in stone.”
I nodded, lips pressed together. Swallowing my pride, I walked over to the table where she sat and put one of the applications down in front of her. “You have enough flight experience.”
“And a master’s in journalism. Pretty sure that’s not the sort of advanced degree they’re looking for.”
“It’s still worth trying.” I slid it toward her. “Right?”
She nodded, but didn’t reach for the application. Instead, she shook herself like a dog just out of a pond and reached for her purse. “I’ve been carrying this around for months, hoping you’d come back. I should have just forwarded it, but … I don’t know. I think I was afraid you’d throw it out.”
Cocking my head, I stared at her as she fumbled around inside her purse. “Why would I throw it out?”
“Because it was from me.” She pulled a battered envelope from her bag and put it on the table. “Or, at least, it would have been if I’d forwarded it.”
Curious, I picked it up. The return address was from Life magazine. Just the name sent a flash of red across my vision with the memory of that anger. She was probably right—I probably would have tossed it if it had come right after the Girl Scout incident.
Betty kept talking, fingers twisting the strap of her bag. “They sent it to me because I was the writer on record. It was addressed to you, but they didn’t know where to send it, and … I could have just sent it with Helen, I guess.”
Inside the Life envelope was another one, in better shape, with an unfamiliar looping signature and Red Gables Home, Red Bank, South Carolina, as the return address. I sat down.
Betty had opened the interior envelope, but I couldn’t find it in myself to care. The curiosity would have been too much for her journalistic heart. I suppose I should be grateful that she didn’t try to hide that she’d read it.
The writing was the same looping, unfamiliar hand from the envelope.
Dear. Dr. York,
I am writing on behalf of one of our patients, who saw you on Watch Mr. Wizard. At the time, she said that you were her great-niece, but called you Anselma Wexler. We assumed that she was confused, as she is quite elderly and not always lucid.
But when Life magazine came out, she saw you there, and again referred to you as her niece. In this article, I noticed that Wexler was your maiden name, so I thought it best to reach out on the off chance that you are indeed related to our Miss Wexler—Esther Wexler.
She had been living with a sister who has since passed away, but to the best of our knowledge has no other living family.
Sincerely yours,
Lorraine Purvis, RN
The page shook in my hand and became impossible to read. I read it again. Aunt Esther was alive?
I pressed my hand to my mouth to try to stop the noise I was making. It was high and thin and rose and fell and I don’t even know what to call it but that my aunt was alive and Hershel and I weren’t alone and I had to call him and then we could go to Red Bank, South Carolina, and get Aunt Esther and—
“Elma?” Nicole had a hand on my shoulder, then pulled me into an embrace. “Elma, sweetie—there, there … shush, now … There, there…”
“I call Nathaniel.” Helen’s words helped me catch my breath a little.
“No—no. I’m fine.” Or at least that’s what I tried to say. Whatever sound I made was enough to stop her, though, and it cut off my keening. I wiped my eyes with both hands, the paper of the letter scraping against my cheeks. “Sorry. That was … that was embarrassing.”
Nicole kept me in an embrace. “Nonsense. Embarrassing is spilling wine on His Excellency, the Prince of Monaco, at a state dinner. This was just a moment of being human, and being human isn’t embarrassing. Well. Except maybe farting.”
I laughed. God. Oh, thank God for Nicole. And then Helen put her lips together and blew out a raspberry. Perhaps my laughter was a little desperate, but at least that breathlessness made sense. Straightening, I wiped my eyes again, leaving streaks of mascara along the sides of my thumb. I must have looked a mess.
“Sorry. It was actually good news. My aunt…” I had to take an unsteady breath to be able to continue. “My aunt is alive.”
* * *
When I pushed the door to our apartment open, Nathaniel was lying on the sofa reading a report. He lowered it, smiling. “You’re home ear—” He sat up, pages dropping all over the floor. “What’s wrong?”
Five different sentences competed for priority. What won was perhaps the least helpful. “I need to make a phone call.”
Fortunately, Nicole had followed me upstairs after driving me home. She rested a hand on my shoulder. “Everything’s okay, but Elma had a bit of a shock.”
Right. I needed to give Nathaniel context, or he would only worry more. “Betty got a letter from the Life magazine article, only it was for me, and—” I shook my head. None of that mattered. “Aunt Esther is alive.”
“Oh my God.” Nathaniel crossed the room and pulled me into his arms. “That is wonderful.”
I sagged into his chest, and the weight of Nicole’s
hand left my shoulder. Behind me, the door closed with a quiet click. Nathaniel rocked me in his arms and let me cry out the past five years of grief.
I’d thought Hershel and I were alone. And yes, there was some small part of my brain that wondered: if Aunt Esther had survived, then who else might have? Maybe my parents were alive? But some of the tears came from knowing that they weren’t. That no one who lived within fifty miles of Washington had survived. But, oh—we had an aunt again.
Sniffling, I pulled back, wiping my eyes for the umpteenth time that day. I fished in my bag to pull out the letter. “I’m going to call the nursing home.”
I had made so many compromises with myself to find happiness. I had sat shiva and gone through the entire mourning process for my family. I had put them in a box and buried them in my memories, in lieu of the earth. This exhumed them, and left a raw scar in the ground of my mind.
But it was a time of great joy, too.
Nathaniel’s eyes were red. He gave a lopsided half-smile. “Well … if there’s ever been a time to say l’chaim…”
L’chaim. To life.
Stepping back, he cleared the path from me to the phone. “Do you want me to go out, or…?”
“Don’t you dare.” Walking to the phone took an unreasonable amount of energy, like escaping the gravity well of grief. “I’ll need someone to hand me tissues.”
“Tissues, check. Confirmed tissues are Go.”
Snorting, I sat down on the sofa and reached for the phone. The number of the Red Gables nursing home was on the letterhead. Two letters and five numbers later, the phone was ringing.
“Good afternoon, Red Gables Home.” The voice on the other end of the line was the soft mellifluous stream of a native Southerner.
I felt the shape of my words shift to match hers. “Yes. Could you please connect me with one of your residents? Esther Wexler?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Wexler is at dinner now.”
I’d half expected her to say “dead.” Clearing my throat, I picked up one of the papers that Nathaniel had dropped. “May I leave a message, then?” The page had a preliminary trajectory for a launch from Brazil. “This is her niece. I—”
The Calculating Stars Page 24