Throughout the afternoon's proceedings, Al sat next to Yardley, his ankles pressed firmly against one another to contain his restlessness. He was bored to tears. The only amusement he could find in the situation was watching the Congressman from Georgia struggle to stay awake. He was the oldest member of the committee, and he kept nodding off, rousing himself with snorts that really seemed to tick off the Congresswoman from Pittsburgh who was sitting next to him.
Otherwise, the hearing seemed to be shaping up into a genuine disaster. Yardley kept trying to steer his audience towards his point of view, but Emerson—who was the chairman—began to crank out progressively tougher questions. Al couldn't help but wonder whether interference from his aide was only making him more stubborn, and he shot one or two annoyed glances at the gallery, where a small crowd of lawyers—most of them young, attractive females who looked too cold to touch with a ten-foot pole—sat making notes or thumbing through folios. The weird thing was that when he did that he occasionally caught Dirk Simon in the midst of shooting him a haunted, almost guilty look. Maybe he wasn't so far off the mark.
Finally the proceedings were adjourned until tomorrow, and Yardley and Al made their way to the Associate Administrator's car. Al waited until they were safely on the road before erupting.
"This is a disaster!" he exclaimed, thumping the dashboard with his fist. "We're losing ground faster than we're gaining it! You keep up like this and you're damned right we'll be lucky if they don't make cuts to Skylab! What the hell are you doing?"
Yardley chuckled softly. "Tell me what I should be doing, then," he said.
"Show some backbone! Get up there and tell them why you deserve their funding! Why they should find it an honor and a privilege to fund you! Make them feel guilty they can't blow the whole military budget on you! For God's sakes, stand up for yourself!"
"Calavicci, here's how it is," Yardley said. "I've been up in front of that committee singing for my supper so many times that they're sick of it. In their minds I'm associated with a big red line that just keeps getting redder and redder. They gave me almost everything I asked for for Skylab, and they're getting sick of giving."
"So then why the hell didn't NASA send somebody else to talk to them?" Al roared.
"They did," Yardley stated mildly.
"What? Then where is he?"
"Right next to me."
Al felt his stomach do an incredibly uncomfortable somersault. "Me?" he said. "No, I can't—"
"What do you mean, you can't? You didn't have any problem with the idea this morning."
"Oh. You mean testifying." Al allowed himself a nervous laugh. "I thought you wanted me to take over."
"I do," Yardley said. "Today I gave them the facts they need to make an informed decision. Tomorrow you're going to give them the vision."
"But—"
"Failing that, we turn on the pressure."
Al frowned. "Pressure?"
Yardley drummed on the steering wheel. "I had lunch with a couple of the boys from Public Relations," he said. "You should have come, Calavicci. It was an interesting meal."
"I bumped into an old friend and had lunch with Emerson's aide," said Al. "Nice guy. He promised to put in a good word for us. Between you and me I don't think it worked."
"Emerson has to give us a hard time: that's his job as Chairman," Yardley said dismissively. "What's important is how he rules—but as I was saying, it was an interesting meal. We got to talking about sports."
"Sports?" Al wasn't following the logic here.
"Baseball, specifically. What makes baseball popular?" he queried.
Al shrugged. "It's the best damn game there is."
"That's right!" Yardley said. "You played for Navy, didn't you?"
"All-star pitcher," Al said proudly, flexing the fingers of his right hand in recollection. He wasn't going to shed any tears over the fact that he'd never be in condition like that again.
"Perfect…" Yardley murmured. Then he continued aloud. "But sure, baseball's a great game, but so is chess. You don't see it getting the kind of press or popularity or money, do you? What does baseball have that chess doesn't?"
"Idiot appeal?" Al tried.
"Icons," Yardley corrected. "Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Hank Aaron. Men who symbolize the game and all that it stands for. Men who represent the finest aspects of America. Heroes. Superstars."
"So if chess had a Ty Cobb it'd make prime time?" Al asked skeptically.
"Chess was a bad example," Yardley allowed. "Look at lacrosse instead. If there were lacrosse players who embodied the American Dream the way the Babe did, the game would garner much more public attention."
"Maybe. Sounds like the PR boys are regular philosophers." Al rolled down the window on his side, gaining palpable relief from the action.
"Now what we need at NASA is an icon," Yardley continued. "If we're going to get public support and public money, we need somebody that folks can look up to and still relate to. Somebody who represents not just what we stand for, but what they stand for too."
"What, Yeager, Armstrong and Lovell not iconic enough for you?" Al asked.
"Unfortunately, they've all hung up their spacesuits," Yardley said. "Besides which, they're all cookie-cutter, picture-perfect middle class success stories. No, what we need is a fighter. Someone from an underprivileged background who rose above it to make something of his life. A kid from the ghettos of Los Angeles or the slums of New York, who's clawed his way up from rock bottom. A military man whose experiences cast a different light on recent operations. Someone who never gives up, no matter how stacked the odds are against him. A member of a visible ethnic group, especially one that maybe has been getting a lot of bad press from Hollywood the last few years. Somebody who's smart, tenacious, courageous, charismatic, good-looking, an experienced public speaker—"
"He'll also cure the blind, heal the sick, and walk on water," Al muttered. "Good luck finding him."
"Of course," Yardley said; "it would help if he was overcoming unusual obstacles in order to get into space, and he'd have to really believe in Apollo, or the public would see right through us… And then the boys from Public Relations asked me if I had any idea where they could find a guy like this. And I said—"
"Macy's!" Al snarked. "Special discount for senior citizens every Monday."
The car pulled to a smooth halt for a red light, and Yardley turned to regard his passenger solemnly. "Calavicci," he said; "a few weeks ago you made it plain that you'd do anything to get into space. How much would you do to keep Apollo afloat?"
"Whatever I had to," Al said, startled into verity by the unexpected question. "Whatever I had to."
"Anything?" Yardley pressed.
"Yeah." Al hesitated. "What did you have in mind?"
A curious smile lit upon Yardley's lips as he accelerated through the green light. "You'll see," he promised.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMPhyllis Yardley had presided over an empty nest for the better part of a decade. All five of her children had moved on, and with her husband gone so often to Huston or Florida she was growing used to a self-sufficient and almost single existence. She had time now for whatever she pleased, and she reveled in the freedom to pursue her hobbies, which ranged from watercolors and crocheting to animal rights activism. No matter how much time passes since the last bird has flown, however, a mother's instincts remain.
So when the sobs sounded in the distance she awoke instantly.
She slipped out from under John's loving arm and put on her robe. Practiced feet wanted to carry her to the girls' rooms, but her mind reminded her that there was only one other person in the house: the astronaut who had come to help John with his Congressional hearings.
Phyllis knew, although she wasn't really supposed to, that this particular astronaut was the reason that John had had to be reassigned to Kennedy. He had special instructions to make things as easy for Albert Calavicci as he could: to put pressure on physicians to skew test results, to keep an eye on the other candidates, and to generally pave the road to the moon for him. Calavicci, however, wasn't making things easy. First there was his refusal to put on weight like he should. Then the outbreak of claustrophobia that he didn't want to treat. Now, admittedly through no fault of his, the whole program was about to be thrown out the window.
It wasn't fair that it was John's problem. His heart was in Skylab. Apollo was a thing of the past. What was the point of going back to the moon? It was a waste of time and money to keep sending men, now that it was plain that there was nothing there. At least, that was how Phyllis saw it.
It was easy for her to be hard on Calavicci, and a little unfair. After all, her own son had remained safely in the Home Guard while other boys had marched off to kill and be killed. He had never even come close to being captured by the horrible Vietnamese. Phyllis was glad. She wasn't blind. She could see the scars on her guest's wrists and arms, and the thinness that still clung to him like a shadow of privation. And she could certainly hear the broken sobs radiating from the guest bedroom.
She paused outside the door, listening to the sounds from within. Calavicci's voice filtered through, hoarse and broken.
"Why?" he moaned. "Why? Why couldn't you wait? Just a little longer, honey. Beth, honey, come home. Beth! Beth! Beth! Beth!"
A fresh sob broke out, and Phyllis opened the door. The dim light from the streetlamps illuminated the bed. Calavicci lay tossing fretfully beneath the covers, weeping in his sleep.
"No!" he cried. "No! Come back! I need you! I need you, Beth; come back to me!" There was a silence, and then his voice continued, a soft, shattered whisper. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. I love you. Come home, honey. Please come home."
Phyllis tiptoed into the room and placed a cool hand on the clammy forehead. With a sharp intake of air, tormented eyes opened, and a flush of humiliation visited the pallid cheeks.
"Mrs. Yardley…" Calavicci muttered, trying to turn away from her. "I'm sorry.. I woke you up…"
"No," Phyllis fibbed. "I was already awake, but what on earth was that? It sounded like a terrible nightmare."
"It was just a dream," he mumbled, and she could tell that he was lying too. "I'm sorry."
"There's nothing to be sorry about," Phyllis soothed. She tried to stroke his hair, maternal instinct demanding that she soothe the anguish she could sense despite her personal sense of propriety and the fact that this was a middle-aged man, not a young child. He jerked his head away and sat up, drawing his knees towards his chest defensively. "Everybody has nightmares."
He snorted cynically. "Especially nutcases," he said.
Phyllis ignored this comment and fell back upon civility. "Do you want a glass of warm milk? That's what I like after a nightmare."
Al shook his head. "I hate warm milk."
He dabbed fiercely at his eyes, glaring at the coverlet. Phyllis decided to try again.
"What about a little brandy?" she asked. "John prefers brandy to warm milk."
He tried to stay silent, but the suggestion was obviously a welcome one. "Brandy'd be nice," he murmured.
Phyllis left him to raid the liquor cabinet in the den. When she returned he was propped up on the pillows, arms crossed over his chest and eyes closed. At first she thought he had fallen asleep, but as she approached he extended his hand for the tumbler. She set it in his grasp, and he drained it in one sharp gulp, grimacing a little as he swallowed.
"Thanks," he said. "That hit the spot."
"What were you dreaming about?" Phyllis asked gently. "It sounded dreadful."
"It was nothing," said Calavicci. "Just—it was nothing."
"It was something," she contradicted. "Something to do with someone named Beth."
"My wife—" he rasped brokenly, before he could catch himself. "I… I don't know why," he muttered dismissively; "but I haven't been able to get her out of my mind all afternoon."
"You split up?" Phyllis asked.
"Sort of."
"But you're going to be married again, aren't you?" she said, trying to cheer him up. "Elsie, isn't it?"
"Elsa," he said flatly. "I forgot about that."
"Well, you love her. She'll help you forget about the other one. I'm sure you'll be happier with Elsa than you ever could have been with Beth."
For a long time the guest was silent. Then he flattened the pillow and laid himself back down.
"Thanks for the brandy," he said. "I'm sorry if I woke you up."
Phyllis left the room and climbed the stairs. She crept into bed and cuddled close to John. Her heart did not rest easy that night.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMA few blocks from her apartment house was an all-night sports lounge. Thursday before dawn there was always boxing from Europe. Busy as she had been with Al, Elsa had not come out to watch for a long time. Now Al was in Washington, and she had found herself unable to sleep in her empty bed. So here she was, sipping a vodka and staring at the television set suspended from the ceiling. On the table in front of her sat Papa's box. She held its contents clutched firmly in the hand not occupied with the drink. There was no one else here at this early hour but a trucker snoring at a corner booth. Elsa watched the combatants in the ring halfway across the world, unable to look away as the blows fell with firm, satisfying thumps. Neither of the boxers was as gifted as one she had known.
Cold tears ran down her cheeks. She wished Al was here to drive away the memories.