14. Bill
FOURTEEN
bill
“Things alright at home, Booker?” Vance asks, clapping Bill on the shoulder heartily.
Bill has been a bit testy at work of late, and he knows it. He gives Vance a quick, curt smile. “Things are fine, thanks.”
The men are working together on a mathematical problem that’s written across a series of chalkboards that cover the entire wall of a long conference room. They’re debating the issue of the necessary trajectory from Earth to various points in space. Jeanie Florence is there, her hand furiously moving across the board as she works a problem with the tip of her tongue held between her teeth.
“You’ve been looking rough, my friend,” Vance goes on, trading in the broken piece of chalk in his hand for a fresh one from the box on the table. “You look like Jo’s been making you sleep in the backyard or something.”
Involuntarily, Bill’s eyes skate over to Jeanie; she appears not to be listening to the conversation.
“Yeah?” Bill says mildly. He’s trying to extricate himself from this conversation without going into any sort of detail. Talking about his personal life with coworkers is something he simply does not like to do. When it comes to combat zones and outer space, in Bill’s mind there are more important things to focus on than whether the wife is haranguing you about something, or if the kids are misbehaving. “I’m good. I just haven’t been sleeping well.”
In truth, Bill has been sleeping fine, but he’s under a lot of stress. He’s already asked Arvin North for three days off to make the journey out to Arizona and check on Margaret’s situation, and while North took the whole situation well, it was clear that he would have preferred it if Bill applied his “no personal life at work” policy across the board. He’d waved both hands and shaken his head back and forth as Bill explained the barest outline of the situation in his office.
“Say less,” North said gruffly. “Permission for travel is granted, and we’ll tell the other men that you’re ill and under doctor’s orders to stay away from NASA for seventy-two hours. Deal?”
And of course it was a deal Bill had taken—gladly—but there was still the tension at home surrounding the trip. Just that morning, Jo had taken out her ironing board and started pressing shirts and slacks.
“For the trip to Arizona,” she’d said, not meeting his eye. Bill had taken his lunch and coffee and left with a small salute, because what was there to say to a woman who’d taken hold of something and refused to let go? What could he possibly say to make her less angry with him?
The conference room clears out for coffee break, and Bill stands there, chalky hands on the hips of his gray pants as he unwittingly leaves dust marks all over himself. Jeanie watches him with a wry smile.
“I can tell someone was never kept after school to clean the boards and erasers,” she teases.
“Sorry?” Bill is squinting at an unfinished math problem; the next step is tickling at the back of his brain and he reaches for a discarded piece of chalk as he walks over and starts writing figures and fractions on the board.
“It’s just, you have chalk…everywhere,” Jeanie says, motioning to his shirt and the front of his pants as she breaks into a charming laugh. She puts one hand over her mouth like a schoolgirl giggling at something the teacher has done wrong.
Normally this would put Bill off—being laughed at is not something he’s accustomed to. No one laughs at the Lieutenant Colonel, and no one laughs at their father, unless he’s being intentionally funny. And, come to think of it, nothing he’s done of late has made Jo laugh, or even smile.
He looks at Jeanie for a long moment. She’s young, and without makeup she looks even younger. Today she has a pair of large glasses perched on her nose, and her long, straight hair is tied back in a navy blue ribbon that matches her dress.
“I guess you’re right,” Bill says, giving in to her laughter. “I never did get in much trouble at school. You?”
Jeanie’s smile drops away and she looks surprised. “Me? Oh, no. My dad would never have put up with that. I’m a military brat, and my dad was very strict with us. No messing up at school, no dating, no goofing off.”
Bill respects this. He thinks of himself as more relaxed with his own kids—though his expectations for their behavior and success are still quite high.
“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 in a 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 the whys and hows of 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 his Popular Science magazine, 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 that Jo 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 she is trying; 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. He has to 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.
“I’m so glad you could make the trip, Mr. Booker,” May Ogilvy says, smiling at him like the kindly grandmother she most likely is. “I’d like to take you to visit with Margaret, and then perhaps we can talk in my office.”
Bill hasn’t been sure what to expect during this visit, other than a discussion about Margaret’s care going forward, but seeing her right out of the gate makes his heart race. “Okay,” he says amiably. “I’m game.”
The facility director leads him down a sunlit hallway. Through the open doors on that floor, Bill can see residents sitting peacefully in rocking chairs that face windows. Many of them have plants growing and flourishing on their windowsills, and he takes stock of their clean rooms and crisply made beds as he walks by them. So far, so good.
May Ogilvy leads Bill through a set of double doors that she unlocks with a key that hangs on a giant ring attached to her belt. She holds it open for him and he follows, sensing the slight shift in energy as the doors close behind them.
“This is our elevated care unit,” Mrs. Ogilvy says, avoiding his gaze as she leads him directly through the unit and to another set of doors. She repeats the key process, only this time they encounter a big, burly man in white scrubs, who insists on inspecting their pockets and patting them down. Bill is growing alarmed. “And this is our intensive care unit—not to be confused with medical intensive care,” Mrs. Ogilvy adds. “This is where we have moved Margaret, and I’d like to bring you to her if you’re prepared.”
Bill feels his eyes widen as he nods; he is suddenly far less certain about seeing his ex-wife. “Okay,” he says, swallowing. The idea of space travel and potential oxygen leaks seems more manageable in this moment than sitting down across from a woman he’d once loved but who would now, most likely, not even recognize him.
May Ogilvy leads Bill to a room where two male attendants stand against one wall. Bill’s eyes graze the room, landing on a woman with long, curly, wild hair. She is standing at the window with her back to him, her face turned up towards the sun that bathes her in hot white light. May Ogilvy stands near the door and nods at the woman standing at the window.
For a long moment, Bill just stares. Finally, he collects himself and clears his throat. “Margaret?” he says.
She turns around slowly—so slowly that Bill isn’t even sure she’s heard him until she’s fully facing him. The moment their eyes lock, everything comes rushing back: school dances; her warm skin under his eager hands; the smell of roses and antiseptic when he’d visited her in the hospital after the miscarriage; the taste of her hot, salty tears whenever he’d held her and tried to kiss away her pain. “Margaret,” he says again, this time not as a question.
Margaret looks older but not old; wiser but not wizened; a little frightened, but not frightening. She stares at him. Narrows her eyes. Looks him up and down from head to toe, lingering on his broad chest, his close-cropped hair, and on the wedding band that wraps his left ring finger in yellow gold. Their matching wedding bands had been white gold, with a tiny chip of a diamond embedded in Margaret’s. Now her hands are bare, and her face free of makeup.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come, Bill,” she says to him in a soft, slightly raspy voice. Her eyes fill with tears. “I thought you forgot about me.”
Bill shakes his head wordlessly, clears his throat, finds his voice. “I didn’t,” he says. “I didn’t forget about you, I just didn’t know how to save you.”