4. Bill
CHAPTER 4
Bill
Cape Kennedy has been operating at a low hum since December thirteenth. Rather, there is a distinctive, insistent buzz to the activity surrounding the investigation into the Gemini fire, but every employee walks through their days with grim, determined looks on their faces, speaking in low, hushed tones, and looking out at the launch area morosely.
"Booker," Arvin North is standing at Bill's desk. "Speak with you in my office?” North has his hands in his pockets and he jingles his keys and coins with one hand. "Be there in ten minutes."
A phone call would have sufficed , Bill thinks as he looks out the wide window at the tree line and the blue sky in the distance. But Arvin North has a knack for being forthright in a way that borders on the uncomfortable.
Vance Majors walks over and pauses by Bill's desk, watching Arvin North leave the floor through a set of double doors.
"Buddy," he says, eyes still on the doors, even after they've swung closed again. "You okay?"
Bill leans back in his chair and laces his hands behind his head. Sure, he's okay. He's fine. He's been struggling for several weeks now--since the fire--with the fact that it was his hunch that something like this would happen, but in addition to the fact that he'd been right, he's also struggling with the knowledge that he should have spoken up sooner. Why wait until the afternoon of the launch to bring it up to Trager? Or until they were standing in mission control to voice his concerns to North?
Bill sighs heavily. “I’m hanging in here. Like everyone else. North wants to see me in ten minutes—don’t know what that’s about.”
Vance sucks in some air through his teeth and it sounds like a sympathetic whistle. “Hopefully nothing serious.”
Bill’s eyes travel over the entire floor as he sits there. He doesn’t want to admit it—even to himself—but he’s always hoping that his eyes will snag on Jeanie Florence. To his absolute misfortune, he and Jeanie had shared a clandestine and completely forbidden kiss the night of the fire, and since then, their interactions have been scarce. Actually, Jeanie has (probably intentionally), kept their interactions close to zero.
“Hey,” Vance is saying, leaning closer to Bill’s desk. “Weird to see Bob’s desk cleared off.” He nods at the spot that Bob Young, the other astronaut who’d died in the fire, had occupied up until December thirteenth. Just recently, someone has come in and completely cleared away everything, even the cup of pencils and the ink blotter. It’s been wiped so clean that the faux wood shines.
Bob Young, late twenties, and largely considered one of the most handsome astronauts, had perished alongside Derek Trager that evening. But given that Bob was the only astronaut who was single and without kids when he died, it’s almost as if he’s simply vanished. There is no widow to attend to, and there are no children to step in and care for. There is no reminder that he was ever in Stardust Beach at all, except for the empty house in the neighborhood that his parents have already come down from Pennsylvania to empty out.
“Yeah, it is weird,” Bill agrees, still looking at Bob Young’s empty desk. The chair is pushed all the way up and under it. Even the cord to the desk phone has been untangled, recoiled, and rests neatly next to the handset. For a moment, Bill wonders who will sit there next, and if it will feel like moving into the house of someone who has recently died. And then of course there is his actual house…
“Anyway,” Vance says. He taps Bill’s desk with the tips of his fingers and glances around. “Keep us posted if North says anything interesting, will you?”
Bill puts on a smile that has no wattage to it. “Sure. Will do.”
After Vance is gone, he stands. He stretches. He surveys the floor again. It’s mostly men, with a few female engineers scattered about, brightening up the sea of white shirtsleeves, charcoal gray pants, and tastefully patterned ties. The women are like the frosting on the cake , Bill thinks, admiring a secretary named Helen as she saunters by, her blue floral skirt swishing behind her. In her wake, she leaves a trail of powdery lilac perfume.
He contemplates calling home quickly just to hear Jo’s voice, but then dismisses the idea. Things have been somewhat touchy with her since the night of the fire, and Bill thinks that maybe it’s affected her more than he would have expected. After all, a fire that killed two men is bad enough, but the notion that Bill had been set to lead that mission himself and that he could have died must be messing with her head.
Not only that, but 1964 had been a tough year all around. Jo had found her footing with her writing, and he was sure proud of her for that. But between her late nights with the typewriter, and her long afternoons volunteering at the hospital, sometimes it seemed to him like she came home and put together a slapdash dinner for him and the kids and then counted the minutes until they were all asleep so that she could go back to her imaginary world.
Bill is punching the buttons for the elevator as he considers this. It’s entirely possible that he feels envious of Jo’s writing and the way that it allows her to escape, at least a bit, and that this has kept him from settling in to read her stories. He hasn’t read them yet, and that’s something that feels like it’s coming between them. Maybe not a lot, but he can pick up on a frisson of displeasure every time someone mentions Jo’s stories in his presence.
The elevator doors slide open and Bill steps into the car to find two of the women from the Human Resources department. They’re hugging file folders to their chests and talking in low voices.
“Mr. Booker,” one of them says, nodding at him.
“Ladies.” Bill pushes the button for Arvin’s floor and the doors close.
One of the women clears her throat. “Um, I read your wife’s stories, and they’re fantastic . You must be so proud.”
Bill, who is standing in front of them with his back to the women, turns slightly. “Thank you, I am,” he says with a smile and a nod. “She’s a stellar wife and mother, and I’m incredibly proud of her writing and the way she’s putting herself out there.”
The other woman makes a sound that’s almost like a giggle and Bill can see them exchange a look between them before turning their gazes to the ground. “She’s putting everything out there,” the woman who has said nothing so far mutters.
Bill hears it, but isn’t sure he’s heard it correctly. However, before he has a chance to clarify, the elevator dings and the doors open. He gives them a perfunctory nod and walks off, turning in the direction of North’s office.
This can’t be good—this meeting. They’ve been briefed and debriefed on the ill-fated Gemini orbital mission, and there can’t possibly be new ground to cover. The one thing that hasn’t happened yet is for North to pull Bill aside and to parse the discussion they’d had that evening in mission control for meaning.
“Booker,” Arvin North says from behind his desk. His office door is open. “Come in.” He waves at Bill to enter and gestures broadly for him to sit. “Close the door behind you.”
Bill does as he’s told, but he does not sit comfortably in the silent office. For all the times he’s been in here, he’s never before felt as if there wasn’t enough air to breathe.
Arvin puts his elbows on the desk and presses his fingertips together, making a steeple as he watches Bill’s face. “I’d like to have a discussion with you before we undergo any sort of formal inquisition by the legal department or anyone outside of our daily sphere.”
Bill nods, though the words “legal department” have given his heart a bit of an electric jolt.
“We had an interaction in the moments before I pulled you from the mission,” North starts, then pauses. “Rather, you brought to my attention some concerns you were having, and I want to address those now.”
Bill feels a storm of emotions start to boil inside him. Now ?! he wants to shout. Now you want to address my concerns? Instead, he waits. He has to wait. Saying too much is never a good idea, and saying too much when your career and your future are on the line is an even bigger mistake. Not to mention the fact that, by nature, Bill is a man of few words. Stoicism was instilled in him from a young age, and he will maintain a stiff upper lip in front of his boss no matter what happens.
“First of all,” North says, “you mentioned to me that you felt we had an issue with the technology of the capsule about twenty minutes before liftoff, did you not?”
Bill pretends to recall the evening in a leisurely fashion—as if he isn’t constantly playing and replaying the events of December thirteenth in his mind when he’s awake—and then he nods. “Yes, that sounds right. About twenty minutes prior to countdown.”
“I see.” North waits and stares at him, apparently waiting for Bill to say more. When he doesn’t, North gives a small cough and then reaches for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on his desk. He taps out a cigarette, and, at length, puts it to his lips, flicks the lighter, touches the flame to the filter, and inhales. Once he’s taken a full drag and exhaled, he lets the lighter snap shut and sets it back on the desk. “Bill,” he says, “I’m going to level with you. We have some real trouble on our hands.”
“Yes, sir,” Bill says, agreeing, but also encouraging North to go on. It’s not his place to do the telling here, and so he won’t.
“This is a PR nightmare, as you can probably imagine.” North lets a wry smile play at his lips. “Our PR department—mostly comprised of attractive ladies who like to put on carnivals and luncheons, or readings by local authors,” he says, tilting his head at Bill to indicate that he’s talking about Jo, “is in a tizzy. We’ve lost two astronauts a year after JFK’s assassination. Sure, President Johnson is a huge proponent of the space program, but these are big hits to NASA. With a fiery explosion killing two men in the prime of their lives, people are going to look at us and wonder what the hell kind of dog and pony show we’re running here.”
Arvin North stands up and starts to pace his own office, looking agitated. He puffs his cigarette a few times, exhaling up at the ceiling tiles, which are already taking on a slightly yellowish hue from all the cigarette smoke they absorb on a daily basis.
“If word gets out that you wanted to call off the mission and that you had misgivings, and that I refused to listen…it looks bad for us. The optics are not good, Booker. I don’t want the entire program to be jeopardized over one mistake.”
Realization dawns on Bill as he listens: Arvin North is afraid. He’s afraid he botched this mission, and he’s afraid that he’s going to be called on the carpet for it. Bill is not used to seeing North in any light other than as a completely capable and calm leader. The man makes informed decisions, holds people accountable, and tackles huge things every day of his life, and now here he is, just like any other man, sweating as he imagines that he’s done something terribly wrong.
“I understand that, sir. I don’t want us to be under a microscope any more than you do, and I don’t like the thought of us being grilled by the legal department—or anyone else.” Bill nearly takes a breath here; this is more than he usually says to Arvin North in one go. “I’m worried for all of us. Every one of us. And for the program.”
North stops pacing and lets the hand holding the cigarette dangle at his side as he looks right at Bill with a burning, inquisitive gaze. “I need your help, Booker.”
Bill understands immediately. It’s possible his own career hinges on this moment. “Okay.”
“Did you tell anyone else about your concerns? Write them down? Share them with anyone—even your wife?”
A lump the size of Jupiter starts to form in Bill’s throat. He knows exactly who he shared his concerns with, and the ramifications of that conversation are ones he feels every single day.
“Derek Trager, sir. I talked to Trager.”
Arvin North puts a hand to the back of his neck and rubs it as he begins to pace again. He looks pensive. Nods once, then again. “You spoke to Trager about this? Out at The Black Hole over beers, or in private?” North waves a hand around to show Bill that he needs more detail.
After a deep, fortifying breath, Bill tells him. “I cornered him on launch day in the prep room. We talked alone. There was no one nearby.”
The calculations and configurations going on in North’s mind are written all over his face, and he sucks hard on the nearly burned-down cigarette butt, exhaling sharply. “Voices echo in the prep room. It’s concrete with ceilings that are hundreds of feet high.” He sounds desperate. “Think. Try to recall. Was anyone at all within earshot?”
Bill rubs his lips together and focuses his gaze on the window behind North’s desk. It looks out on a launch pad, though they’re several stories up in the air. “No,” he finally says. “I can’t think of anyone who was around us. Could our words have echoed? Maybe. But we were talking to one another in close range. I was intentionally trying to keep our conversation between us.”
North walks over to the same window that Bill is looking out of and turns to face the outside world. He puts a hand on his hip, and his shoulders have a slight hunch to them. All along, Bill had pegged his boss at about fifty, maybe fifty-two, but this conversation has changed that assessment: North looks at least sixty-five as he stands there, staring out at the land around them like a king taking in his beloved kingdom. When he turns back to face Bill, it is with resignation.
“Trager knew,” he says simply. “And yet he got into that capsule.”
The nodding of Bill’s head is so slow and slight that it’s almost imperceptible. “I think a part of him thought I might be inflating my concerns to get in the way of his chance at a mission.”
Arvin North grits his teeth and his cheek muscles flex. He stubs out what’s left of his cigarette in the heavy glass ashtray on his desk and then puts both hands on his hips.
“Dammit,” North says. He looks like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “His poor wife and children.”
It’s unspoken between them, but it’s clear that North agrees with Bill’s assessment, and that it’s entirely possible that Derek Trager thought Bill might be trying to interfere with the mission due to a bruised ego.
“Okay,” North says with a deep sigh. “We’ve got work to do. This is a huge mess, and obviously an enormous tragedy for us all on both a personal and professional level. No question about that. For now, I’m going to ask you to close ranks. And by that, I mean the ranks are you and me, and no one else.” He lowers his chin and looks right at Bill. “Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We don’t discuss this with anyone else, and when we’re at home with our wives and kids, we’re at home with our wives and kids. Got it? None of this is pillow talk to share with the wives, and if we can avoid it, we don’t even think about this unless we’re alone.”
“Understood, sir.”
North gives him one final nod and then glances at the door, dismissing him.
Bill reaches for the doorknob and is more than ready to get the hell out of there when North stops him.
“Bill,” North says, just before the door opens. “You were right,” he says in a hoarse whisper that’s tinged with regret and sadness. “I’ll be goddamned, but you were right all along.”