They fished, and camped, then moved higher and fished the next day, eating what they caught. What they couldn’t eat, they stashed in a cold icebox. When they got home, they shared the haul with Pancho, who put half in her freezer and half on the menu.
Soon after their trip, Harrison started turning up at Rosamond First Baptist Church on a Sunday, just after the service had started. Soon after that, he started turning up on time.
It was early fall, the end of September; Harrison had started to fly again. He was fixing a sandwich in Pancho’s kitchen when the telephone rang. He wiped his hands, walked through to the bar and picked up the receiver.
Yeah? he said.
Heard you got your wings back.
The gruff voice took him by surprise.
Well, he said, someone’s got to show this new breed how it’s done.
Heh, Deke said.
Pancho stuck some cardboard wings on my chest, Harrison said. Inscription said ass-tronaut.
That was my idea, Deke said. How you feelin?
Good, Harrison said.
You wanna come fly for us again? Deke said. Gemini’s just wrapped up. Lovell and Aldrin; three EVAs, over five hours outside the spacecraft. Plus we grew some frog’s eggs in zero-g.
Yeah, Harrison said, I heard about Aldrin’s record.
I’m not gonna say we can’t do it without you, because we can. But we got a hell of a lot of work to do in the next three years if we’re gonna get to the moon by nineteen seventy and we need all the good men we can get.
I sure appreciate that, Deke, he said. And everything else, I really do.
Deke grunted.
I don’t know, though, Harrison said. Tell you the truth, I’ve been thinkin about quitting; retiring from the air force too. Maybe set up a little trout farm in the mountains, lead a peaceful life.
Sounds like a damn fine idea, Deke said. Might even join you when Apollo slips into the early eighties. Get the hell out, and don’t tell anyone.
I’ll send Pancho over in the Mystery Ship.
Heh. I’m still owed a flight, so I guess I’ll be stickin around for a while longer. There might be something else for you, though, if it takes your fancy. Based at Edwards. Pancho got a teleprinter?
Yeah, he said.
Got the number?
He read out the number pinned on the wall above the telephone.
All right, Deke said. I’ll send you something to look over. Call me if you’re interested.
He hung up. Harrison replaced the receiver and walked through to the cramped office behind the bar. He sat by the teleprinter and waited. After a couple of minutes, he returned to the kitchen to finish making his sandwich. He heard the bell ring and walked back to the office, eating his lunch. The Fernschreiber 100 spooled paper. He tore it off, sat down, and read.
Pancho was in the stables looking over six new quarter-horse stallions she’d just bought in Oklahoma. Harrison walked in and handed her the teletype.
What’s this? she said.
Take a look.
She read it and handed it back to him and turned her attention to the horses.
Well? he said.
She fixed him a look.
You so much as think about turning this down I swear to God and Jesus Christ his son I will hang you upside down by your peckerwood and invite the entire goddamn state of California to throw shit-clods at your balls.
Take it I got your blessing then?
She ignored him and talked to her horses.
A few weeks later Glennis invited him to dinner and he went and Grace was there and it was good. After dinner he followed her onto the veranda for a smoke and they looked into the darkness together and he said I miss her and she turned to him and saw his wet eyes and he said I miss her so much.
She picked him up the next day and they drove to Rosamond and parked in the small lot at the entrance to the cemetery. The day was unusually humid. They walked together down to where their daughter lay and stood in front of the simple stone that marked her grave. The inscription read, FLORENCE MAYTON HARRISON. Underneath her name, it said “DUCK”. Then, below that, it said, MAY 7, 1959—DECEMBER 12, 1961. Grace slid her hand into his and they stood for a while. Then they walked back to the car.
EPILOGUE
VICTORVILLE, CALIFORNIA
CHRISTMAS EVE, 1968
The television glowed in the low light of the living room. It was dark outside. The new house was so drafty they’d had to roll up newspaper to block cracks between the wall and the floor and poke balls of it into the holes in the window frames. They’d moved to Victorville that fall. The living room was a small nook, the kitchen larger, and there were two good-size bedrooms upstairs, as well as an old outhouse and a barn outside that they wanted to turn into a stable. An oil-filled heater stood next to the sofa where they sat, warming the room. As commandant of ARPS, Harrison had given himself Christmas off.
The broadcast was live, a ghostly hue traveling a quarter of a million miles to Earth from where Frank Borman, Jim Lovell and Bill Anders were in lunar orbit. Cronkite, erudite, steady, mustache groomed and hair slicked, was anchoring the CBS News Special Report, Apollo 8: Historic First Flight to the Moon.
Bet ol Shaky never thought that one Christmas Eve he’d be flyin round the moon, Harrison said.