Well someone’s feelin perkier, he said.
He pulled over a chair with his foot and sat down, Florence resting across his chest.
I could still use a sleep, Grace said.
You must be beat, he said.
You betcha, she said, already sliding away. Harrison smiled and put his head back, feeling the warmth of his daughter through the blanket, and something in his heart kicked.
He took a few days from work. Ridley brought them home in his truck; the four of them crammed in the front, the old Triumph laid flat in the back.
My own bed, Grace said when she saw it.
Don’t get too comfortable, Harrison said.
They took Florence to her nursery. It was still unfinished; half-painted, pale green, boxes stacked waist-high on one side, waiting to be stored.
She won’t notice, Grace said. Or care.
I’ll finish it, he said.
The first days passed fast. He learned how to sterilize a bottle, make up formula, wear Grace’s pink gown to keep warm in the kitchen during early feeds. Florence cried hard when hungry and it cut into him; not the volume, or the sound, but the need. And it came with no warning, on no schedule, and took priority over all else. He didn’t like it. What did you expect? Grace said.
They had visitors. Grace Walker brought a stew, Pancho arrived with whiskey.
We called her Florence, Grace said.
Pancho pretended not to hear and complained about a bill she’d got from the vet.
He took Florence to the base, held her tight against him, this little thing, showing her to everyone.
He sat with her in Ridley’s office, pointing out airplanes in the hangar below.
Sure hope she can fly better than you, Walker said.
Damn sight smarter than you, Ridley said, not looking up from his report.
That night, Harrison put her to sleep in her crib, tucking the blanket in tight, stroked her head. She looked up at him. He folded the top of the blanket down, retucking it on either side. He frowned.
What are you doing? Grace said, walking into the dark room.
What if she wriggles in the night? he said. Pulls the blanket over her head?
She won’t.
But what if she does?
The blanket is woven loose, Grace said. Look.
He looked.
Is it too tight? he said.
It’s fine, she said.
Harrison sighed.
I can’t get the damn temperature in here right, he said.
She’ll tell you if she’s cold, Grace said. Quit worrying.
Later, on the sofa, Grace said, I never much thought of being a mother til I met you.
That so, he said, next to her, feet up on the coffee table.
Guess being an only child, it never really crossed my mind.
Too busy with the horses?
She gave a little laugh. Yeah, she said. Guess.
She sought out his hand and held it.
Then, after the war, she said, I don’t know; it was just there, in me, somehow.
Uh-huh.
You notice that funny noise she makes? she said, looking at him.
Yeah, he said. Like a quack, or something? Kinda cute; and a bit strange?
I think it’s cute, Grace said. She’s such a tiny thing, isn’t she, Jim?
Yeah, he said. He looked at her and smiled.
Our girl, she said. Say, you’d better turn in; you’re due on base at five.
Got Ridley to reschedule it, Harrison said.
Really? Grace said. He spoke to the old man?
Figure they can cut me some slack, Harrison said. Program’s ahead anyway.
She kissed his cheek.
What’s that for? he said.
Thank you, she said.
I need a drink, he said.
I’ll get you a beer, she said, standing, stretching, walking to the kitchen.
We can hear her down here, right? Harrison called out.
They’ll hear her in Rosamond, Grace said from the kitchen.
He grunted, reached for the newspaper, put it back down again.
I’m gonna get some air, he said.
What? she said.
Outside, the control tower glowed red spilling a dim light over the desert salt pan. He lit a cigarette, smoked it, went back inside. Grace had gone to bed. He sat in the kitchen and drank his beer.
MOJAVE DESERT
MUROC, CALIFORNIA
FEBRUARY 1961
The sun lulled brittlebush to early flower, full corollas turning the desert floor yellow. Harrison slid up his sunglasses, grinned, pushed open the door.
Daddy! Florence said.
Hey there, Duck, he said, stooping to pick her up. You had a good day?
Daddy’s home!
Grace leaned against the kitchen doorframe, wiping her hands on a towel.
Why yes he is, she said.
Harrison kissed his daughter on the cheek, then repeatedly under her chin. Florence threw her head back and giggled.
Least someone’s pleased to see me, he said.
Just surprised, is all, Grace said, walking toward him. Wasn’t expecting you til after five.
She kissed him.
Got off early, he said, putting Florence down.
Lucky you, Grace said, then sighed. Sorry, she’s been a handful. You okay?
Yeah, he said. Same old.
Daddy come with me, Florence said, cause you have to come with me.
Grace frowned and Harrison followed Florence to the kitchen.
Cookies! he said. Why, Duck, they’re my favorite!