They sold the house the following summer. It went for a decent sum. Timber Cove was a desirable area. Astroville, the real estate agent called it. Grace insisted he keep half the money. You need to get a place of your own, she said. You can’t live in a motel forever.
He had no time to think about it. He was on the backup crew for Conrad and Gordo’s Gemini V and training hard. It was a complex, challenging mission. Harrison found the extreme focus of training helped him live with, what he now termed, to himself, his affliction. He could live with it. His coping techniques had evolved. Over time, their effectiveness would diminish, but a new one would always present itself. After the incident at the Hilton, he considered going to Deke, telling him everything, but how could he? He was unable to tolerate the thoughts himself, let alone tell another. What would Deke think of him? No. And Deke would make him leave the program; that much he was sure of. And he had nothing else now. More than that, though, he wanted to go up; he had to go up. He yearned for it.
It was late, quarter gone eleven, Harrison stood alone outside Walt’s. The air was cool. He could smell the sea; the salt and the sky. Across the street, a man and a woman stood sharing a cigarette, their thin shadows falling across the sidewalk, the warm sun long sunk beneath the sea. He imagined them eating together across the tight vinyl check of a restaurant tablecloth; how each reflected back the best of the other. Harrison fingered the box of matches in his pocket. His arms glowed neon indigo from the sign above the door. Cars drove downtown, taillights casting red trails inside his eyes. The man parted from the woman and crossed the street toward him.
You got a light? Harrison said as he approached.
The man looked up, said, sure pal.
Harrison pushed a Lucky Strike between his lips. The man pulled a lighter from his pocket, struck it, Harrison leaned in.
Thanks, he said.
Pleasure.
Busy here, huh.
I guess.
You got something to do with this damn program they’re runnin? Harrison said.
Hell, no, the man said. Take it easy, pal.
He walked away, leaving Harrison smoking alone in the neon glow. He drew himself together, dropped the cigarette on the sidewalk, pushed open the door.
Evening, Jim, the bartender said. Usual?
He nodded.
Coming up.
In the corner, a television set showed the news at low volume. Harrison sat down at the bar.
Here you go, Walt said, setting the glass down on a paper napkin.
Thanks, Walt.
Jesus, have you seen this? a voice said.
There were two men, older, at the bar next to him. They were watching the news.
They’ve gone at them with tear gas and goddamn billy clubs.
Harrison looked up at the television set.
Six hundred blacks, marching in Alabama? I can believe it.
This ain’t America.
This the news?
They interrupted Judgment at Nuremberg. Walt, turn it off, would you, I don’t want to watch any more.
Can I get another? Harrison said.
Sure thing, Jim, Walt said, clicking the set off.
You’re Jim Harrison, right? the first man said.
He nodded.
Bill. This here is Eb.
Pleasure, Harrison said.
Mind if I ask you a question?
Depends on the question.
Well, Eb and me, we been wonderin. Why we spendin American dollars puttin men up to do a monkey’s job?
Harrison glanced at his glass, turned it with his hand, looked up at him.
Well, he said, those early flights, yeah, they were designed to be automated, sure. It was quick and dirty, but Eisenhower was in a fix; the press were goin nuts, remember?
Sure we do, Eb said.
All the engineers wanted the occupant to do was flick a few damn switches, Harrison said. But you know what? The Mercury boys, they said, no, we want to fly the thing, like a pilot, case we need to. Good job, too, or ol Gordo would have fried.
Gordo Cooper? Bill said.
Yeah, Harrison said. His flight, the last one; designed to be the longest of em all. Twenty-two orbits.
How many’d Glenn do?
Three.
Jesus.
Harrison continued. Gordo’s first eighteen orbits, everything goes swell, then, on the nineteenth, the electrical system shorts. Next orbit, he loses all attitude reading. Then the whole automatic control system goes off. Temperature in the capsule hits a hundred and, because of the electrical problem, carbon dioxide starts building up in his suit. Mission Control, well, they’re getting themselves in quite a twist. Gordo figures he’s in a tight spot, so takes over. He’s gotta line up the angle of reentry manually, with his eyeballs, holding the capsule steady with the stick. On his final orbit, he approaches daylight over the Pacific, checks his orientation with some lines he’s drawn on the window with a pencil. Then, using his wristwatch for time, manually fires the retro-rockets at exactly the right moment, and splashes down alongside the carrier. Hell, they were so close, you could toss a ball between them. Ol Gordo, yeah; that’s how you do it.
Hey, Walt, three more, Bill said.
Coming up.
Have to say, Eb said, glad we ran into you.
Harrison nodded.