Page 34 of The Launch

“I can understand that. The military instills a certain level of perfectionism in you, and that extends to the people around you.” Bill tosses his chalk in the tray and brushes his hands together. The dust floats through the air, caught in a beam of afternoon sunlight from the windows that face to the west. “But I like to think that other people might have different understandings about right and wrong, and certainly not everyone is going to live their daily lives as if someone is going to drop in and check their beds for hospital corners.”

Jeanie tucks a stray piece of hair behind one ear. “Mmm. Hospital corners.” She winces. “You’re giving me flashbacks to my childhood, Lieutenant Colonel!”

Bill chuckles as he leans his hands on the back of a chair. They are the only two in the conference room, though Ed and Jay are standing right outside, drinking their coffee and talking about sports.

“And do you find that you uphold those same standards for yourself as an adult, or have you gone in the other direction?”

Jeanie wrinkles her nose. “Maybe half and half. I still can’t fall asleep if my kitchen isn’t spotless, and I have a routine that I stick to: wash my sheets on Saturday, vacuum my apartment on Sunday, and then every day I do something else, like water the plants on Monday, dust on Tuesday, etcetera.”

“Sounds both regimented and wise,” Bill says with admiration.

Jeanie tosses her hair in an unselfconscious way. Though it makes Bill think of a young girl, there is nothing intentionally comely or seductive about it. “I suppose. I just don’t like to live in filth. However, I refuse to adhere to a color scheme.” She holds up a finger in warning. “If you ever see my apartment and the first thing you feel like saying is ‘nothing matches,’ well, don’t.” Her smile spreads like a sunrise.

Bill startles slightly at the suggestion that he might see her apartment. He looks away.

Jeanie’s sweetness makes her seem like the kind of girl who loved science and math so much in school that she forgot to ever like boys, and is therefore unaware of the effect she has on men. As she’s talking about her yellow corduroy couch, her shaggy orange beanbag, and her mismatched dishes, Bill is wondering whether she’s ever been in love. It’s hard to imagine a girl like Jeanie Florence slowing her thoughts down enough to close her eyes and accept a kiss. Bill can’t picture her sitting quietly ina movie theatre, or singing her heart out at a concert. Without even asking, he can tell that she’s not a part of the wave of young women who’ve been swept up by the tide of madness that the press are referring to as “Beatlemania.”

“I’m sure it’s a perfect bachelorette pad,” Bill assures her as the other men start to trickle in. For some reason, he takes a step back, putting more distance between himself and Jeanie, although he hadn’t been standing too close and nothing untoward had happened between them.

“Okay,” Arvin North says as he enters. He stops and consults the board as he smokes a Pall Mall. “Well, friends. I’m looking at this mess on the board, and I’m not sure we’ll ever make it farther than New Jersey at this rate.”

The men have the good sense to stifle their laughter, and Bill rubs his temples. It isn’t that they’re a bunch of dimwits; quite the contrary—these are the best of the best, and he knows that their collective knowledge and abilities are fairly powerful. But there comes a time in the training and preparations where their synapses begin to fray, and their focus wanes. And four o’clock on a Friday is about that time.

“Listen,” North says, turning to look at the room as he holds his cigarette between his fingers. His watch glints in the light from the windows. “It’s only four, but let’s call it a week, yeah? I’m beat. You’re all killing me.” He waves his hand in the air and a trail of smoke follows. “Get your lunch pails and cut out. Have a good weekend, and we’ll start again Monday morning. See you.” Without looking back, North leaves the room and the guys punch the air or look relieved.

“Black Hole,” Jay says decisively, pointing at the door with both hands. “Last one there buys the first round!”

“Sir,” a flight attendant in a tight blue skirt, a matching buttoned jacket, and a little triangular hat pinned to her carefully coiffed hair bends at the waist and sets a white-gloved hand lightly on Bill’s knee. “We do strongly suggest that your seat belt is fastened for takeoff.”

Bill is reading a magazine and has forgotten to buckle his lap belt. He tucks the magazine into the pocket of the seat in front of him and reaches for the straps as he watches the young, blonde flight attendant do the same to the other passengers. He notes that while she touches the men lightly on the knee, she lays a hand on the women’s shoulders politely, and if a man and a woman are seated together, she always speaks to the woman first.

Human nature is not Bill’s area of expertise, and he assumes that Jo might call him obtuse, but he likes to think that noticing details about how people behave is what’s gotten him this far. Rather than delving into thewhysandhowsof other people’s actions, Bill simply notes them and lets his observations inform how he handles any given situation. It certainly helped him in the years he spent in the Air Force, and it will undoubtedly help him as he navigates his work at NASA.

Once they’re safely above the clouds, the small troop of flight attendants begin to circulate. Their gloves are off, as are their hats, and each woman stops and smiles at every passenger, looking them in the eye as they bend forward to make sure they’re hearing each request. By the time the blonde flight attendant returns to Bill, he’s halfway through hisPopular Sciencemagazine, and he closes it, letting it flop onto his tray table so that the cover is facing up.

“You like fast cars?” the flight attendant asks him with a knowing smile as she cracks a can of beer and pours it into a plastic cup for the man sitting across the aisle from Bill.

“Sorry?”

The flight attendant glances at his magazine. “The cover story.” She sets a manicured hand on the back of the seat in front of him as she rests for a moment, bathing him in her bright smile. On the cover of the magazine is a blurry, fast-moving red car, with the title “The Fine Art of Fast Driving” above it.

“Oh, right,” Bill says. “I like cars. But I was actually reading this article.” He taps his finger against the top corner of the magazine. “Wernher von Braun’s got a piece in here about Mars.”

The stewardess lifts one perfectly-groomed brow as she leans a hip against the seat in front of him. “Like outer space? Are you an astronaut?”

Bill is well aware of the intrigue surrounding his job, and he nods proudly. “I am. Yes.”

Immediately, the smile on the young woman's face brightens. “Wow!” she says, openly appraising him as her eyes dance down to his left hand, which rests on the tray table. Her smile dims only slightly when she sees his wedding ring, and then she turns up the wattage again, pushing herself away from the seat and putting both hands back on her beverage cart. “That’s incredible. I’m sure your wife is really proud.” With a more guarded smile, she offers him the drink of his choice as well as a bag of salty peanuts, and then winks at him before moving on.

Bill sips his vodka and orange juice as he pops a peanut into his mouth and chews. He glances at the window that looks out onto the blue sky and thinks about Jo. Is she proud? Does she think of him as an astronaut and glow with wifely pride? Or is she just struggling every day to reconcile the new life he’s created for them? A part of Bill wanted to believe thatJo would just fall into their changed circumstances without a hiccup, but he can see now that this was never realistic. Jo, who loves nothing more than waking up at a campsite early in the morning to brew a pot of coffee over an open fire, was never going to be the kind of woman who relishes getting her hair done and posing for photographs. But sheistrying; he can see that. Bill admires her work at the hospital, though he’d at first been uncertain about it, and she’s really making a nice home for them in Stardust Beach.

But this trip to Arizona has thrown a wrench in the works, for sure. He finishes his screwdriver in one long pull, and catches the eye of the pretty blonde stewardess as he holds up the empty cup, hoping she’ll get the message and bring him another. She does, and he smiles gratefully as he takes it.

Bill returns his attention to the fluffy clouds beneath the wings of the airplane, and tries to stay positive about this visit to handle Margaret’s care. Hehasto stay positive—this is his responsibility, and handling it is not optional, no matter the fact that Jo wishes it were otherwise.

Desert Sage is a low, single-story stucco building in the desert. Bill steps into the dry heat from the car he’s rented, folding the paper map and tossing it onto the passenger seat before it blows away in the wind.

He runs a hand through his disheveled hair and pushes up his aviator sunglasses as he looks around. It’s been years since he was here, and nothing has changed except the cars in the small parking lot. Bill walks to the front door and goes through the motions of announcing himself, signing in, and shaking hands with the director of the facility.

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