2. Ed
TWO
ed
They’ve renamed the port. And Ed is as patriotic as the next guy, but when President Johnson rechristened the space center as “Cape Kennedy” right on the heels of the assassination, he’d mostly felt numb. They’d lost their president in one inexplicable moment, and that forward momentum that everyone was feeling about the space program had dulled just the slightest bit. But it shouldn’t be that way, and Ed knows this: LBJ is a champion of the space race, and his words to the nation as he’d renamed Cape Kennedy had been words of promise, of encouragement, and of curiosity. He wants to put men on the moon just as badly as Kennedy ever had, and Ed needs to believe that the assassination of the president hasn’t derailed both the country and the space program. He’s far too invested now.
Ed flips over in bed, punching his pillow and trying not to wake Frankie. He looks at her narrow back, her spine visible through a thin satin nightgown, and the way her ribcage swoops down into the valley of her waist. Then the landscape changes, rounding upwards and over her well-formed hips. His wife is a gorgeous woman—she has always been a gorgeous woman. He’d met Frankie in New York City one afternoon as she’d hurried past him in a trench coat over nylons with seams down the back. Nothing sexier than a woman in nylons with seams that raced down her calves, tracing the path that his hands wanted to take.
“Taxi!” Frankie had called out, one long, narrow arm jutting into the air. Her hair had been done and sprayed, and her makeup was thick and theatrical. “Taxi!” She’d dropped her arm and stamped a foot lightly. “Dammit,” she said under her breath as Ed had approached her.
“Let me, miss,” Ed said. He’d held up one hand confidently and let out a loud, piercing whistle. A taxi swooshed over to them and braked hard as Ed opened the back door for her. “Your chariot.”
Frankie stopped in her tracks and looked at Ed, poised though she was to jump into the back of the cab and hurry off to wherever she was going. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I’ll put you on the guest list tonight at Radio City. Bring a friend, if you like.”
“Radio City?” Ed frowned, still holding the door.
“Rockettes,” Frankie said. She was still in a rush and slid into the taxi. With just her head, she leaned into the open doorway and peered up at him through thickened eyelashes. “What’s your name?”
“Ed Maxwell,” he said. “Yours?”
“Francesca.” She smiled at him in a way that made his heart skip a beat. “Be there by seven o’clock. Go to the box office.” And with that, she’d pulled the door shut and the taxi had jolted forward like a sprinter off the line.
In the end, Ed had been able to convince his buddy Rick to accompany him, and the guys had squeezed into their velvet-covered seats in Radio City Music Hall, watching with wide eyes as the gorgeous women moved across the stage in a sea of shapely legs and wide, white smiles.
“Which one is she?” Rick had whispered, leaning over and bumping Ed with his shoulder.
Ed scanned the women and his eyes landed instantly on Francesca, whose dark hair made her stand out amongst the icy cool blondes and honeyed brunettes. “That one,” he’d said, never taking his eyes off of her.
After the show, they’d waited for Frankie outside the stage door and she’d seemed completely unsurprised to see them standing there. But Ed was the opposite of a cool cucumber when she walked out the door, and the first thing he'd done was nearly lunge at her with the intention of shaking her hand. Or kissing it gallantly. He actually wasn't sure which, but he knew that he wanted to touch her.
“Is this your date?” Frankie smirked, hands tucked into her trench coat pockets as she eyed Rick with amusement.
Ed’s heart raced. “I needed proof that a bonafide goddess had invited me to watch her dance on stage,” he’d said, feeling the embarrassment of his gushing flattery as it crossed his lips. "So I begged Rick to come and confirm that I wasn't making the whole thing up."
His words had the desired effect on Frankie as she blushed and looked over his shoulder shyly. “Well,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I’d invite you gents to the after party, but this is our day job, so we come here and then just go home most nights.”
“How about if you give me your number instead?” Ed had tried, looking at her almost bashfully. There hadn’t been a woman in years who’d made him feel that much like a nervous young boy asking out a pretty girl for the first time.
Frankie paused for a beat as she thought about it. “Okay,” she said. “You got something to write on?”
Ed and Rick madly patted down their pockets, but they had nothing: no pens, no paper, and very quickly, the stage door area cleared out and there was no one else to ask either. “Shoot,” Ed said, dejected. “How about if you just tell me and I’ll remember?”
Frankie laughed, a big, bubbling, appreciative guffaw. “You’ll remember my number? Okay, soldier,” she said, eyeing his slicked hair and the way his shirt was tucked with military precision.
She’d told him the string of numbers and they’d said their goodbyes as Ed chanted the numbers over and over in his head. On the way home, every time Rick tried to talk, Ed would hold up a hand and repeat the numbers again out loud.
“You’re really gonna call her, aren’t you?” Rick asked, tapping one foot lightly as a misty rain started to fall over the city. They were in the back of a cab together and Rick was about to get out near his place.
“You bet,” Ed said, chanting the numbers one more time for good measure.
“Okay, well good luck with that.” Rick shook his hand. “Thanks for taking me to see a bunch of beauties on stage tonight. Much appreciated.” He hopped out and shut the door, holding up one hand in farewell.
Ed waved back, saying Frankie’s number to himself over and over as the cab pulled back into traffic.
But now, here in the dark of night, Ed looks at his wife in their bed and tries to remember the excitement of those first few dates. He can barely grasp at the memories. Over the past three years, they’ve gotten married, moved to Florida, and Frankie has grown more distant than he could have imagined. Just as things have gotten more exciting, and they've had more to be happy about, Frankie has gotten quieter. She spends time with the other ladies in their neighborhood, and she even watches Bill and Jo Booker’s kids once a week while Jo volunteers at the hospital, but there’s something about Frankie that feels…restless. She’s recently given up smoking (Ed harbors no illusions that this will truly last, and to be perfectly honest, his wife without a cigarette in one hand is a bit like the Statue of Liberty without her torch), and it's only added to the feeling that Frankie is always gazing out a window into the unknown, jiggling her leg impatiently, or wanting to walk out the front door and wander away. Sometimes Ed wants to shake her awake even when she's sitting right there next to him on the couch and they're watching television together.
“Hey, baby,” Ed says, letting his hand snake beneath the covers and find Frankie’s lushly rounded hip. He slips his palm over the satiny fabric and jiggles her lightly. Frankie does not respond. “Sweetheart,” Ed whispers, scooting closer so that he’s wrapped around his wife’s body like a single parenthesis around an important word. “Are you awake?”
He tries this move roughly once a week, and his success rate is about the same as the Pittsburgh Pirates--which is to say that it's not very successful at all.
Frankie stirs as Ed moves his hand from her hip and lets it drift around to the soft swell of her belly. He loves the way his wife’s entire body is smoothed and rounded. Each curve of her feels like home.
“Can I kiss you, Francesca?” Ed whispers as he puts his lips to the back of her neck and nuzzles her hair. He is ever hopeful that she’ll turn around in his arms when he does this, meeting him in the dark and showing him that she wants what he wants; that she feels this same need to connect and to be one, but she rarely does. When they'd first gotten married Frankie had tried, and sometimes he felt like she was only going through the motions for his benefit, but at least she'd welcomed him into her arms. Lately, she hasn't been receptive to his gentle advances at all, and this is hard for Ed. He kisses her neck again, desperately hoping for a tiny glimmer of desire to spark between them.
Instead of responding, Frankie’s body goes limp in his arms and she does not turn around. Ed pulls back, disappointed. He won’t beg, and he won’t be a nuisance to his wife—that’s not the kind of man he is. He’ll wait patiently until she wants him as much as he wants her, even if it kills him.
Ed flips over onto his back and puts one arm over his eyes. He breathes deeply and counts backward from 500, praying for sleep.
"Sir," Ed says the next morning, stopping just short of a salute as he greets Arvin North in the hallway at the newly-christened Cape Kennedy.
"Maxwell." Arvin North is a bit like the Wizard of Oz to the men of the space program: he wields unseen powers, and is almost a total enigma. To Ed, Arvin North is just as intimidating as any drill sergeant he's ever met. "Speak to you for a moment?"
"Yes, sir," Ed says, following North into his office. The door closes solidly behind Ed and he waits to be asked to sit.
Arvin North nods at a chair absentmindedly. "Good news," North says once they're both settled. He steeples his hands in front of his chin, elbows resting on the arms of his chair. Ed can see a smudge on one lens of North's thick glasses. "I've been asked to select one of my men to go to Seattle and join the crew at Boeing for a series of tests. I'd like you to go."
Ed's heart flips in his chest and he fights the urge to put his hand over it. "Me? Seattle, sir?"
Arvin leans forward, scooting his chair closer to the desk as he reaches for a manila file. He opens it and drops it on the desk with a slap. "Yes. I see that you've got some very specific experience, most recently with the SERE program." He looks up at Ed, obviously waiting to hear more about this.
Ed clears his throat. "I do. Prior to coming to NASA, I was career Air Force, sir. I helped to implement the program, which, as you know, stands for Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape, as a special training for military aircrew who might find themselves held hostage or in extreme conditions." He pauses here.
Arvin North has clearly worked with many, many military men in his career, and he says these next words carefully: "You were a POW yourself."
Ed feels his throat constrict; the best he can manage is a nod before going on. He inhales deeply. "I was. In Korea. And I learned a lot about survival."
"I would imagine." North gives him a long, respectful look but doesn't ask any questions. "My apologies for putting you on the spot like this without warning, but I'd like to hear more about the way you think that your training and expertise might dovetail nicely with the space program."
Ed is taken aback; he'd come into work this morning expecting nothing more than the usual trainings and meetings. He sits up straighter and wipes both palms down the legs of his gray slacks. "Well, sir. I think that SERE focused intensely on survival and on being put in the harshest conditions imaginable. We also explored the psychological aspect of captivity, and I think that applies to how it must feel to be in space--to some extent. I also think that because a certain amount of danger is inherent to space travel, being prepared for conditions that go beyond what a human normally expects would be highly beneficial." Ed is gesticulating with his hands at this point, the excitement building in him as he realizes just how closely his SERE training parallels what he might experience in space.
Arvin North nods and looks to be deep in thought as he considers Ed’s words. “Right, right,” he says, tapping his fingertips against the top of his desk. “Which was my thought. And I’d really like to see one of my men get involved in this, so I’m offering you the opportunity. You’d spend about a month in Seattle.”
Ed feels lightheaded at being singled out for an opportunity like this one. “Wow, sir, thank you,” he says, separating his hands and then bringing them together again. “I’m honored.”
“Wonderful.” North stands. “I’ll get you more information as soon as I have a file with all the details. We’re about a week away from Christmas, and you’d be expected on the west coast by January third. Does that sound doable?”
Ed gives a single nod. “Absolutely.” If Arvin North had asked him whether he could be on Pluto by January third, his answer would have been yes. “I can make that happen.”
North is quiet for a long moment. “And your wife—the Rockette, right?” The slightest flicker of something passes over Arvin North’s face. It could have been amusement, awe, or curiosity, but he wipes it away as quickly as it appears. “Will she be fine with you being away for a month or more?”
Ed frowns at this. Frankie had known when he signed on for this job that him being gone for an undetermined length of time would potentially be part of the deal. “Of course,” he says, picturing Frankie’s face as he says this. “She’ll be thrilled for me. And she was a Rockette, yes, but now she stays at home.”
Arvin North watches Ed but says nothing for a long moment. “Though it’s none of my business, Maxwell, may I ask whether there are children in the works?”
Ed nearly cracks a grin at North’s wording of the question, but he understands that the man isn’t trying to be funny, just delicate.
Ed clears his throat and runs his thumbnail down the inseam of his pants. “We’d like children,” he says carefully. “We’ve been married three years, and I know Frankie would love to be a mother.”
Arvin North looks at the blotter on his desk and picks at an imaginary fleck of dust there. “I ask not to be intrusive,” he says. “But I do concern myself with my men and their families. I’ve found over the years that if a wife isn’t happy, the chances of a man’s own unhappiness skyrockets. Marital discord goes hand-in-hand with a general sense of well-being, and that extends to the workplace. And, perhaps unfortunately, our workplace requires a man to have his head on straight. We aren’t just a factory that’s cranking out widgets, if you know what I mean.”
“I do, sir.” Ed looks right at Arvin North. “And I will make sure that Frankie is one hundred percent on board before I leave for Seattle. I can promise you that my home life won’t interfere with the way I do my job.”
Arvin North does a slow, pensive nod and looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t. “Well, then congratulations on this appointment,” he says, standing. Ed follows suit, shaking Arvin North’s hand when he extends it across the desk. “I’ll let you get back to the day’s events, and, like I said, more information will be forthcoming.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ed leaves the office before letting his face break into a huge, wide grin. He’s been selected from the pack to do something exciting and important, and it’s going to take all his willpower not to crow about it to the other guys. Part of being an astronaut is the ability to put the team and the mission ahead of yourself, and to exhibit some humility when it’s called for. No, Ed won’t tell the other guys about being asked to go to Boeing, and he’ll make sure that when he tells Frankie, he has a plan in place to ensure that she’s happy and occupied while he's gone. He has a lot to think about, and he needs to keep his wits about him—and to keep his mouth shut about the whole thing.
He lasts all the way until lunch.