The Astronaut's Wife (3 page)

Jillian smiled and took the glass. She thought that if she was in Nan’s shoes she would not exactly relish the idea of a call from Nan’s latest boyfriend, Stanley, whether from the Beef and Brew, outer space, or anywhere else. Stanley, sadly, was no woman’s idea of a knight in shining armor.

Nan shrugged and shook her head. “Earth’s orbit, outer space, Jupiter, whatever. Jill, if you want to get really technical about things, you scored.” She took a deep pull on her wine and shook her head again. “Oh man...”

“What?” Jillian asked.
“I don’t get it,” Nan replied. “How is it—we grow up in the same house, we watched the same television shows, ate the same frozen dinners.
_..
Your background is no different than mine, you know. It’s no nature versus nurture thing here.
We weren’t separated at birth or anything like that—”
Jillian looked puzzled, not quite sure where her sister was going with this. “So what?”
Nan rolled her eyes and swigged a bit more wine. “So what? So
you
land Johnny Rocket Boy—who probably would have sent you flowers from outer space if he could have—and I keep on ending up with subtly different models of ‘throws up on himself Elmo.’” She took another gulp of the wine and then winked slyly at her sister. “And let me guess... I’ll bet he’s good at the little things, too, isn’t he?”
“What little things?” Jillian asked innocently. Her eyes were bright and she was smiling broadly, but she could not match her sister for brazenness. After a moment, she blushed and looked away, turning back to her vegetables.
“Those little things that mean so much,” said Nan, peering at her sister over the top of her wine glass. “You know what I’m talking about, July.”
“Maybe,” she replied and blushed a little bit more.
Nan laughed out loud at the truth she read in her sister’s eyes. “It’s true,” she said. “Men are like parking spaces. The good ones are taken and you can bet that the available ones are all handicapped. Maybe
you
don’t know that, but
I
sure as hell do.”
The two sisters shared a laugh over that, Jillian shaking her head ruefully as she expertly diced a
zucchini. “There’s a man out there for you, Nan. Give it time.”
“How much time is time,” Nan shot back. “Wait a minute, Jilly-o..
_.
I know... Maybe, just maybe, I’m gay. Maybe that’s it. I could be gay, you know.”
“Oh, Nan, you? You are not the type.”
“Maybe I could get to like it,” Nan countered. “You know, gay is pretty damn cool these days... or is that over already.” She considered that for a moment. “No, I think it’s still pretty cool.”
“Nan, stop it!”
But Nan wouldn’t stop it. She knew that anything that took her sister’s mind off of the space mission was good for her. “What? You don’t think I could be gay? I could be gay. I know if l really tried.
_{. .“}
Nan stood up straight squaring her shoulders against some formidable challenge. “Okay, Jillian, that’s it. It’s official. You have a gay sister, From now on I want you to—” Then she yelped in alarm. “Jesus Christ, Jillian! Be careful.”
Nan was gaping at her sister’s slim hands. The silver blade of the chef’s knife had sliced deep into her left index finger. Blood was spilling out among the green and yellow of the vegetables.
But Jillian did not appear to have noticed. “What?” Nan yelped. “Jill, what?” Jill
did
not respond. Rather, she was staring at the mute screen of the television set. Nan followed the line of her gaze and saw still pictures of two men, two men identified by the television network as Commander Spencer Armacost and Captain Alex
Streck. At the top of the screen were the words:
Special News Report.
For a moment time seemed arrested. There was no sound. There was no movement. It was as if for that split second both women had become as still and as inert as statues, their bones and joints frozen. The spell on Jill broke first.
“Oh my God
_{. . .“}
Jillian gasped. Then she pushed past Nan to raise the volume on the television set. But she was a second too late. They had missed the story.
”...his has been a special report,” said the deep-voiced announcer. “We now return you to the program already in progress.” h a matter of seconds a midday talk show blared from the screen.
“Jill! What’s going on?” Nan yelled.
Jillian did not answer. She twisted the knob on the set, running madly through the channels, but there was nothing more about her husband, just regular programming—the game shows, the cooking shows, the soap operas seeming all the more inane when contrasted against the dread that had suddenly filled her body.
“Jill? Jilly?” said Nan. Jillian did not appear to have heard. She was still desperately turning the channels when the doorbell chimed. Both Jillian and Nan froze.
Jillian knew exactly what was happening. “Oh God,” she whispered. “It’s them.”
“It’s who?” demanded Nan.
“NASA
_{. . .}
they probably have a trauma team or an honor guard or something. This is it.”
“Jill, you don’t know—”
But Jill had raced to the front door and thrown it open. Standing on the step was a middleaged man m a well-cut gray suit—the NASA uniform— and with a particularly sheepish look on his face. He seemed to have trouble looking Jillian square in the eye and he shuffled his feet nervously.
Jill had met most of the
Victory
team at one time or another, but she had never seen this man before. In her fear and anxiety she felt a deep, irrational loathing for this anonymous man, a warm body on whom she could vent her wrath.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I’m Sherman Reese, Mrs. Armacost,” he said softly. “I’m from NASA. It’s about your husband.”
Jillian’s anger had flared up for a moment and now had burned itself out. She slumped against the door frame, her pretty face pale and drawn as if the last few minutes of her life had exhausted her, had drained her of her entire reserves of energy and strength. Blood was dripping from her finger like a leaky faucet.
“What has happened?” she asked. Her throat was tight, her voice harsh and dry.
“We’d like you to come down to the—” Reese started, but was interrupted.
From inside the house Nan shouted,
“Jill— there’s something on TV about Spencer!”
“We have a car waiting,” said Sherman Reese softly. He took her arm gently, as if to guide her toward it.
“Jill?” Nan called from inside the house. “Jilly, I think you better come and see—”
As if suddenly afraid of Reese, Jill backed away, as if by not seeing him she could turn back the clock by those few minutes needed to set the world right again. There would be no NASA man at her door, no sinister NASA car in her driveway.
“Please, Mrs. Armacost,” said Reese quietly. “Captain Streck’s wife is already over there. Any questions you have will be answered down atthe—
Jillian turned and ran back into the house, Reese following in her footsteps.
“Mrs. Armacost, please don’t make this more difficult than it is already.” Jillian vanished into the kitchen. It was here that Reese found her, gazing at the television set while Nan wrapped Jillian’s sliced opened finger.
“Mrs. Armacost,” said Reese, “the Director wants...”
“Shush,” said Jillian. She did not even so much as glance in his direction.
There was a reporter on the television set, microphone in hand, standing in front of the chainlink gate at the security checkpoint at the entrance to the Cape. It was odd that the reporter would be doing his standup from outside the complex; there was an elaborate press room inside the space administration building. It could only mean that there had been a complete press lockdown on the story.
The television correspondent more or less confirmed the suspicion. “All we know for sure— and
we don’t know much—is that both men were outside the orbiter, performing repairs on a communication satellite. The condition of Armacost and Streck, as well as the well-being of the rest of the shuttle crew, is unknown at this time
_{. . .}
While the reporter signed off and threw the story back to the network, Jillian turned to Reese and looked him square in the eye. Her voice was eerily calm.
“Is my husband dead?” she asked.
Reese shook his head apologetically. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the condition of your husband. I have been sent here by the Director to—”
“Is my husband dead?” July asked again, her voice edged with a tinge of hysteria, as if the false calm was melting away and she was just barely holding on to her feelings.
Reese shrugged. “To be honest, ma’am, I just don’t know. Details are very sketchy.”
“If you don’t know,” Jillian said coldly, “take me to someone who does. Now.”
She looked at the man’s starched shirt, as stiff and as spotless an officer’s whites, his crisp perfectly cut suit, that smooth shave, and the shine on his shoes and felt contempt for him. He was down here whole and healthy while her husband was deep in space, far beyond rescue, dead in the silence of space.
Reese shrugged. “That’s what I’m here to do, Mrs. Armacost. Captain Streck’s wife is already there.”
Nan grabbed her sister roughly by the sleeve and tugged her toward the door.
“Come
on, July, let’s get over and there and find out what the hell is going on.”
Sherman Reese stepped between then. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding as if he were
genuinely
sorry. “I only have security clearance for Mrs. Armacost.”
“Then you better get security clearance for Mrs. Armacost’s sister, mister, because—” Reese looked beseechingly at Jillian. “Please, Mrs. Armacost, could you tell your sister—”
Jillian nodded and tried to stand straight. It was odd; she did not feel the desire to cry—not yet, anyway. She turned to Nan.
“It’ll be okay, Nan,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as possible. “I’ll be okay.”
“You sure?” Nan’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m sure
_{. . .“}
The radio was on in the no-frills government car that carried them through the quiet suburb.
“NASA is now officially confirming that Commander Spencer Armacost and Captain Alex Streck were outside of the space shuttle
Victory
when there was an explosion on the communication satellite on which they were doing repairs
_{. . .“}
Reese looked worried as the words spilled out of the radio, but the young woman did not appear to be listening to the grim report. Rather, she was engrossed in the world beyond the window of the car.
It was a fine Florida summer evening. People were sitting on their lawns, laboring over barbecues, lazing in swimming pools. Kids rode bikes. Life was continuing even as hers might be coming to an end.

The fluorescent lights of the bare corridors of NASA headquarters washed any remaining color out of Jillian’s face. The only sound was the clip of their footsteps on the white linoleum and the annoying hum from the lights. Jillian was numb and silent. Sherman Reese was silent as well, reserved and speechless the way people are when they are in the presence of tragedy that does not really concern them, not directly anyway—it was the sort of situation that leads people to say, “I don’t know what to say.”

As they walked the labyrinthine hallways they passed some staff members. Jillian did not know them, but they seemed know who she was—they glanced at her ashen face quickly then looked away just as quickly, as if they were catching a glimpse of a condemned prisoner on her way to the gallows. One or two flashed sympathetic smiles—not at Jillian, but at Reese, none of them envying the grim task of escorting a woman who might or might not have become a widow in just the last few hours or so.

It was with some relief that Sherman Reese delivered his charge to her destination. It was another bare, windowless, fluorescent-lit room, a wide conference table and a set of chairs the only furniture. On the wall was a monitor showing the activity in Mission Control. There was no sound coming from
it.

Seated at the table was a lone woman. She was older than Jillian by a number of years— somewhere in her middle forties—and her pale face was lined with grief. Jillian knew her well— it was Natalie Streck—but had she not known her from happier times she probably would not have recognized her now. Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes dark, red-rimmed, and hollow. She looked as if she had aged a decade in a matter of minutes.

Jillian rushed to her and threw her arms around her. “Oh, Jillian, "Natalie cried into Jillian’s shoulder. “Oh God
_{. . .“}
Both women gave into their tears and Sherman Reese stood off to one side, his hands thrust into his pockets frying to look as if he wasn’t there.

Natalie pulled out of the embrace and looked into Jillian’s face. “They’re so far away, Jillian,” she said softly, fighting to keep down her tears. “Alex and Spencer, Jillian, they are so far away. And there’s nothing we can do for them.”

Jillian stroked her hair and rocked her in her arms as she might a little child. “Shhh, Natalie, shhhhhh.....
_{. .“}
“Oh. Jillian. He’s dead,” Natalie wailed. “I know he’s dead. I know he’s dead. I can feel it.”
Jillian felt herself go cold, as if she had stepped into a freezer. If Alex Streck was dead, then Spencer was dead as well.
“What have they told you?” Jillian asked.
Natalie shot a cold glance at Sherman Reese. “Nothing. They won’t tell me anything.”
Both women turned on Reese. “Why?” Jillian demanded. “Why haven’t we been told anything?”
Reese shrugged and felt useless. “I’m sorry. I have not been authorized to say—”
At that moment, as if on cue, the door to the conference room opened and a man walked in. He was a distinguished-looking white-haired man whom Jillian recognized as the Director, a man she had only met at official functions—a quick handshake, sometimes followed by a photograph, and then the great man passed on.
“Sir,” said Reese deferentially and motioned toward the two women like a headwaiter showing a diner to his table, “these are Mrs. Streck and Mrs.-”
“I know who they are, Sherman,” the Director said imperiously. “Mrs. Streck, Mrs. Armacost
_{. . .}
First, let me tell you that your husbands are alive.”
Both women felt as if great weights had been lifted from their shoulders.
“Oh, thank God,” breathed Natalie Streck.
“They’re back on the orbiter now,” the Director continued, “and we’re going to bring the orbiter down just as soon as we get a window.”
“Can we talk to them?” Jillian asked.
The Director shot a look at Reese and then looked back to the two women. He shook his head. “That is not possible, Mrs. Armacost. I am afraid that both Captain Streck and Commander Armacost are unconscious at this time.
_“
“Oh my God,” said Natalie Streck. “Are they badly hurt? Are they in pain?”
The Director did not answer the questions directly. He slipped around the questions like a boxer avoiding a punch. “We have an MD on this mission, ma’am, who has done his best to make them comfortable. Furthermore, we- are monitoring all their vital signs from down here at Mission Control. They are both stable but, at this time, they remainunconscious.
Vital signs, thought Jillian. That was NASA-speak for her husband’s life. .
“What happened out there?” She heard her own voice ask a question, and was surprised to hear it.
Once again the Director tried to avoid the question. “All the information we have at our disposal at the moment is extremely sketchy, Mrs. Anna-cost—unreliable to say the least. I wouldn’t want to venture an opinion—”
Jillian was in no mood for obfuscation. “What happened out there?” she snapped, cutting the Director off. The man looked at her with hard eyes for a moment. He was not a man who was used to being interrupted by anyone, least of all an astronaut's wife. Still, there was something in the look on Jillian’s face that told him that she would not
stand for any circumlocutions on his part.
“Your husbands were outside the orbiter,” he said slowly. “It was a perfectly routine task. They were engaged in repairs on a satellite. There was an explosion and
_{. . .“}
The director looked over at Reese, then back at Natalie and Jillian. “We lost contact with both astronauts
_{. . .“}
He shifted uncomfortably and looked down at the floor. “We lost contact with both of them for about two minutes.”
Jillian’s gaze lost none of its intensity. “Two minutes? You lost contact for two minutes?”
The Director continued to look at the floor. Suddenly the buzz from the fluorescent light seemed very loud.
“What do you mean,” said Jillian, “lost contact?” There was no doubt in the tone of her voice that she was going to get a straight answer.
The Director glanced at her and then back down at the floor. “They were off radio and out of visual contact” he said. “After the explosion they drifted behind the shuttle. We had to bring the craft around one hundred and eighty degrees to get them.”
“They were all alone,” said Natalie Streck, her voice shot through with tears! She shivered
at
the thought of her husband floating alone and hurt in the middle of so much nothingness.
It was plain that the Director had decided that he had heard enough of wifely hysteria. “But now they’re back on the shuttle and they will be back down here just as soon as we can manage it,” he said briskly. He gestured to Sherman Reese urging him forward. “Mr. Reese here will stay with you
until we can take you to your husbands.” He changed to a more human pitch. “I’ve worked closely with both Spencer and Alex, and I know they are both strong and courageous men. I’m sure they are going to be fine. I give you my word.”
With that, the Director turned and with a nod to Reese, as if handing the two women officially to his command, left the room. There was a sense that the Director was glad that the interview was over and done with. He had more important things to do.
Natalie and Jillian did not care if the Director had stayed and held their hands. NASA, the space program—none of these weighty matters were of the slightest significance to them now.
“They were all alone out there, Jill,” said Natalie tearfully. “They could have been lost forever.”
Jillian put her arms around Natalie and held her close. “It will be fine, Natalie. We have to believe that. That’s all we can do. Get them back down and get them home. Then everything will be all right. Understand, Natalie?”
Natalie Streck did her best to nod and smile, as if she really believed what her friend had said. She pushed her face hard against Jillian’s shoulder, burrowing for comfort.
Sherman Reese pointed to the television monitor mounted on the wall above them. “This monitor will show the view from the shuffle as they land. Would you like me to get the link up? You’ll be able to see the whole thing from here.”
Neither Natalie nor Jillian heard him; they had
traveled too far into their own grief to care what anyone said to them. There was a very long silence as Reese waited for an answer, for a set of instructions—anything—from the two women. But nothing came—and nothing was going to come from either of them.
“I'll get the link up,” said Reese, as if to himself. He got busy doing whatever it was he had to do.
Natalie and Jillian paid no attention. As with the Director, they didn’t care about Sherman Reese, either.