Wingspan- The distance between the wingtips of an aeroplane, bird, etc.
Or- the distance between two brothers.
Wingspan
John Tracy runs a hand over his lightly stubbled face. He was awake all night, alternating between the Control Room and the Galley, brewing extra strong coffee to keep the Sandman at bay. His eyes are gritty, his throat dry from the re-conditioned air and the tightness he gets in it when he's sure his brothers are in trouble and there's not a damned thing he can do to help them.
The Earth looms through Thunderbird 5's panel of glare-resistant windows, the sun sparkling like diamonds on the vast Pacific Ocean. They're down there somewhere. Heck- somewhere? He can pinpoint them exactly. It doesn't make any difference. Knowing where they are is not the same as being with them. For instance- one day there may be a bullet (courtesy of The Hood most likely). A bullet with a name on it. Gordon. Alan. Scott. Virgil. He'll hear the crack of the pistol over the comm. It will be so clear and distinct that he will even hear birds clattering out of nearby trees and the whine of displaced air hanging like a ghost as his brother falls. He won't be there to take that bullet. Instead, he'll be flattened against these windows, his face and hands pressed against the reinforced plastiglass. If you were an astronaut on a space walk you'd see his pale face from far away- a tiny, agonized mask, his mouth open, palms spread, soundlessly screaming.
"Dad? I'm worried about John," says Scott. The eldest Tracy boy and pilot of Thunderbird 1 is perched half on and half off the edge of his father's desk, swinging his foot and playing with a paper clip. Jeff glances up, wondering briefly why his eldest son always sits there when there are perfectly good chairs scattered all around.
"Oh? In what way?" the silver haired patriarch mutters. He's ashamed to admit he's only half listening- there's a documentary on the television about the early days of the space pioneers. A handsome man smiles. Yuri Gagarin- the first man in Space. A Soviet Cosmonaut. Now there was a man who stepped out into the unknown. But then, those Russians always were a hardy bunch.
"Well, for one thing, I don't think he's sleeping," Scott continues. He's aware of his father's divided attention. It doesn't bother him. He knows Jeff Tracy may look distracted but he hears everything that's important.
"Oh?" Jeff looks briefly at Scott, his thick grey eyebrows drawing together. On the television, a huge rocket launches vertically into the air and then keels over suddenly like a Fourth of July firework gone out of control. So much technology, so much investment, fizzled out like a broken Catherine Wheel, burning the hopes and dreams of everyone watching, and in some cases, even killing the astronauts themselves. Jeff Tracy named his second son Virgil in honour of Virgil 'Gus' Grissom, who died during a pre-launch test of Apollo 1. Virgil carries the name with pride.
"He's a worrier, Dad. It gets to him, more than I think it gets to anyone else. You know how he internalizes. I saw him on the monitor yesterday. He looked like shi...er, I mean, he looked bad. Dark circles under his eyes and everything. That rescue we went on yesterday? Routine mission- if you can call any of them that, I guess. I could hear it in his voice. He's frazzled. He needs a break."
Jeff still smiles when he hears his grown sons swearing and then immediately correcting themselves. He knows full well they let fly with the language as soon as he's out of earshot. They're men, after all. The older three have been men for years. Yet Jeff can't help it- he still sees the grazed knees, the imploring eyes, the tear stained cheeks, Gordon's trailing sneaker laces and Virgil's paint smeared bedroom door handle. John crying because someone went in and un-alphabetized his DVD collection and now he can't find Wall.E.
"He's still got two weeks to go," Jeff says, one eye on the television as a still photo of the Mercury Seven is shown. He pulls in a breath, as he always does. There they are. His sons' namesakes. Malcolm Scott Carpenter, Virgil 'Gus' Grissom, Alan Shephard, Leroy Gordon Cooper, John Glenn. Proud men. Smiling men, confident men standing on the brink of a new era.
"'I don't know what you could say about a day in which you have seen four beautiful sunsets'," Scott murmurs.
Jeff frowns. "Hmm?"
"The quote. The one John Glenn said while orbiting the Earth. Four beautiful sunsets." Scott has twisted the paper clip beyond recognition. He attempts to straighten it but gives up. It's beyond repair. He tosses it into a nearby ashtray. There are three others there. He's mutilated them all.
Gordon, Alan and Tin-Tin are in the pool. Screaming and shouting as usual. Gordon's staccato laughter rends the air, making unseen shapes. Tin-Tin is scolding them both. Scott's eyes travel from the Mercury Seven on the television screen to the line of Tracy portraits along the wall. No doubt if Mom had lived and they'd had two more brothers, they'd have been christened Walter and Donald after the remaining two astronauts. Scott suppresses a smile. Donald Tracy. They would have renamed him Duck Tracy. Scott chews on his lower lip to stop himself laughing out loud.
The documentary ends. It's a series running over seven weeks. Jeff switches the television off. His eyes follow Scott's gaze to the portraits lining the wall. Those men he has just seen on the screen- those proud pioneers. They were not that different to his own boys. Their mothers and fathers would have loved them the way Jeff and Lucille loved theirs. Those men as boys would have fallen over and grazed their knees and cried. They would have laughed at clowns and eaten cotton candy at State fairs. They would have had no idea what the future held beyond dinner time, bath time and bed time. That some of them would end up orbiting the Earth, and some of them would die trying.
Jeff presses a button on his desk and his communications device (cleverly disguised as a paperweight) lifts up and activates. He contacts International Rescue's orbiting Space Station, the magnificent Thunderbird 5. The hub of their entire operation. After a few moments John Tracy's portrait flickers and Jeff's third son appears on the screen. He looks haggard.
Scott was right. How could I not have noticed?
"Hi, Dad. What's wrong?" John says. His tone is inquisitive, but slightly robotic. As though he hasn't slept for days. The sheen has gone from his hair. He looks like a rough sketch of himself.
"Nothing's wrong," says Jeff. "Why would anything be wrong? I just called to say Hi."
"He just called to say he loves you," Scott chips in. "He just called to say how much he cares. He just called to say he loves you, and he means it from the bottom of his heart."
"Stevie Wonder did it better," says John, sardonically. Then he grins. "But hey, it's great to see you both. Goddamn sun shining again, I see?"
"You should be able to see, from up there," says Scott.
"I need me some Vit C," John says. "They turned me away from the 'Twilight Revival' auditions because I was too pale."
"Plus, you hate the sight of blood."
John laughs. "True."
"John," Jeff cuts in. "You look bushed."
"I do? Damn. Guess GQ won't be calling this month."
"Get some sleep."
"Easier said than done, Dad. I'm caffeinated to the eyeballs. I've even started talking to myself."
"I mean it, John. You look like shit."
"Dad!" says Scott, his blue eyes widening. He almost does a double take, like the ones they do on comedy shows. But Jeff is focused on John now. And John appears to be listening, dropping the wiseguy act.
"I can't help it," John says. "I get worried."
"There's nothing to worry about," Jeff replies. "Stop drinking the coffee, John. You need to be alert, but it's making you too hyper. Switch to decaf, at least."
"That rescue yesterday?" John says. "I got this feeling. I can't explain it- I just felt something bad was going to happen. I got sick with worry. You think it could be the caffeine?"
"I'm pretty sure it doesn't help in the amounts you're drinking it."
"Okay. I'll try to cut down. Although, I really hate decaf." John sighs as though his last little pleasure in life has been taken away from him. Even his eyes look dulled.
"Listen, son," Jeff says, softening his tone. "I've made a decision, as of this very moment. Pack your bag. I'm cutting your Tour of Duty short. You need the rest." He holds up his hand as John begins to protest. "John, I'm not going to argue. You look exhausted. You need to see that everything's all right. No-one is hurt, nothing bad has happened. I forget sometimes that you're up there all alone. I know, it's selfish of me. Sometimes I think too much about the organization and not enough about my own children, but when I get the chance to put it right, I do try."
"Alan won't like it."
"Alan's in a better frame of mind than you are."
"Oh, now I really am insulted." But it's apparent- John is already appearing to brighten.
"Boo hoo," says Jeff. "Go pack. I mean it."
After the link is severed, John Tracy goes across to the bank of windows and adopts his usual position, looking out over the curvature of the Earth. He runs his hands over his cheeks and realises he was talking to his father with a face full of stubble. Sleep would be good. There are no bullets. At least, not today.
Jeff sits back in his chair. He thinks back to a time long ago. Gordon, three years old and toddling, heading towards the road. He'd managed to open the baby gates and no-one knew he'd even left the house. And then six year old John, flying down the stairs, shouting Gordon's name, wrenching the front door open with the strength of ten men and hurtling down the path. He'd managed to grab the hem of Gordon's Cookie Monster sweatshirt just as the little boy stepped off the curb between two parked cars. Had he run out further, no-one driving past would have seen him until the last minute. He would have been hit, surely.
John had half carried, half dragged the crying Gordon back to the house, to be met by the whole family who had rushed out onto the porch, shocked and ashamed that they didn't even know Gordon was gone. The baby gates were meant to be child proof. But they weren't meant to be a substitute for vigilance. John was Hero of the Hour, but he hated the fuss. He went back up to his room and carried on doing what he'd been doing. But he hadn't minded the impromptu party they'd thrown for him that night- a party during which they all realised how close they'd come to losing Gordon and had all vowed never to take their eyes off each other for one minute, ever again.
Scott is still hovering on the periphery of Jeff's vision.
"What is it, Scott?" Jeff sighs.
Scott grins. "Nothing, Dad. You know you did the right thing."
"It's tough at the top," the elder Tracy smiles.
"Want me to go get Alan?"
"Yes," Jeff replies. "I want you to go get Alan. And then I want you to go get John. I think he's had enough of seeing four sunsets- I think it's giving him hallucinations."
Scott shakes his head, laughs softly. He throws yet another twisted paper clip into the ashtray and heads off towards the patio, long strides carrying him towards the streaming sunlight.
END