The next day, a deal was reached; Khrushchev and Kennedy talked under the table. Grace had taken Milo, and he was alone. He spent the morning rearranging his office. There was too much clutter. He tidied stationery into drawers, filed away paperwork. The filing system was inconsistent and it made him uneasy. He instructed his secretary to deal with it when he was gone. He was due in Baltimore that afternoon for a tour of the Martin Company, who were assembling the Titan II rockets for Gemini. He unpinned the photograph of Grace from the corkboard on the wall and put it in the middle drawer of his desk underneath a technical report on the feasibility of landing the Gemini spacecraft on a dry lake using a paraglider. Who wanted to be churning around on the swells waiting for a bunch of goddamn swabbos to come unbuckle you? Plus keeping most of the US Navy on active standby for the length of the mission was incredibly expensive. It would be a hell of a thing to set foot on the moon only to drown in the stinking sea of the Atlantic as soon as you made it back to Mother Earth. Imagine that. He didn’t like to. He pulled everything else from the corkboard and put it in his drawer with the picture. Then he cleared off his desk. It was hot. He buzzed his secretary.
Maggie, he said. Is the goddamn air on?
Maggie poked her head in.
Sorry, Jim, what was that?
What’s the point of having an intercom if you’re just going to come in anyway? Is the AC on?
I believe so, she said.
Okay then, he said.
Are you all right?
I’m fine. I’m going to Baltimore.
Poor you.
Yeah, he said. I need to speak to Deke when I get back. Could you get me the first five minutes he has?
Of course, Maggie said.
No—wait, Harrison said. Scratch that. I’ll catch up with him in Sacramento.
Any advance on that? she said.
No, he said, I—
A thought hit him hard.
What? she said.
Shit.
Jim?
Wait! he said. Sorry. Could you, uh, just give me a minute? Sorry.
She pulled the door shut. He fell back on his desk, leaning against it, sweating, through his face, his hands, the back of his legs. What if Grace was right? What if it was his fault? No, they had come to the decision together. You sure about that? He remembered them sitting by Duck’s hospital bed as she slept. He remembered Lapitus leaving them to talk. He’d been so tired; so tired he could barely function. What had they said to each other? How had they decided? He couldn’t remember. Shit shit shit. He shut his eyes tight. Something about reaching the end of the line—or had he imagined that? Duck being strong. What had they said? He couldn’t remember. C’mon, c’mon. He felt something. Then it was gone. What the hell was it? He rubbed his face with his hands. Decisiveness. Why had he felt suddenly decisive, f’chrissakes? He tried to experience the feeling again. His recall triggered a memory: Duck’s bedside, Lapitus gone, talking to Grace, feeling decisive. Lapitus, his voice; that hospital, its empty hallways. He suddenly saw the janitor; his slow gait, that steel bucket, loping along the hallway as Lapitus talked about cobalt for the first time.
Fear held Harrison hard.
That was it—right there!—watching the janitor walk away. He’d thought, if it comes down to it. He had decided. Alone! Right there in the goddamn hallway! Jesus Christ. A measure of last resort! He’d decided, he’d talked to Grace, he’d given Lapitus the go-ahead, despite Lapitus saying she wouldn’t be able to take it. He’d decided. Without discussion, without deliberation—because, because—why? Why had he done that? He pushed further into himself. Because he liked being in control; because—yes, go on, say it you sonofabitch—because being in control makes you feel good—no, worse—because it makes you feel important. Jesus Christ. He had killed her. He had killed his own daughter. Because of his ego. His heart wailed. A new thought invaded his mind—his hands around his daughter’s neck, crushing her windpipe, squeezing the life out of her. In the office, he cried out, pushing his fingers to his forehead, trying to rid himself of the intrusion, the thought, but it came back, again and again and again, each time with more power. And now she was looking up at him, in pain, in horror, at what he was doing. No, he cried. No!
His heart tried to bust out of his rib cage and his body was a hundred and sixty pounds of panic.
Maggie buzzed him. He looked up at the door.
Not now! he yelled. Blood beat in his ears. Had she heard? Would she come in? His legs were numb. He held onto his desk, walking around it, then sat in his chair, feeling dizzy. His mouth was dry.
The door opened.
Jim?
Maggie, he said. Uh, sorry. Come in.