When Elsa awoke Al was already gone. She lay still for a minute, hoping to hear sounds from the kitchen that would mean he was fixing breakfast. Nothing. They had fought and now he had run off without a word. Men. They were much more trouble than they could ever be worth.
She got out of bed, pausing to refasten the ribbon meant to hold the front of her chemise closed. She didn't really know why she had put it on last night, when she had come up to bed spoiling for a fight. She had told herself at the time that she would wear it to torment Al. It was his favorite. He loved nothing quite the way that he loved to tug the ribbon and watch the garment fall away. When she didn't let him touch her, it would drive him crazy. It would be an excellent punishment for his thoughtless words to the press. Now, however, after waking up alone, it seemed that maybe she had decided to wear it because she hoped, even as she fumed with indignant rage, that when the fight was over he would want to make up. Her disappointment that he had shown no interest surprised her.
She went to the bureau mirror and pulled her brush through her hair, watching the way the waves of fire tamed themselves. It wasn't fair. All she wanted was a normal life, to go on living as she always had, but with Al to keep her company. Instead she found that a normal life was made impossible by the attention thrust upon her husband. It was dreadful, but true, that the press were causing fights: certainly last night was their fault. It wouldn't have bothered her so much to find out that Al had been saying such things to Taggert or the other men. In all probability she would never have heard it in such a case. Even if it had come back to her through the NASA grapevine she could have laughed it off, but to see it in such a horrible gossip paper was unbearable. If only Al hadn't got himself dragged into this mess.
He wasn't even sorry that he had, either, and she could see why even if it didn't make her any happier to know it. With the attention he had been garnering over the last months if they didn't send him to the moon there was going to be huge outcry from the media. She didn't want to credit Al with such mercenary motives, but surely the thought had at least crossed his mind.
Elsa realized she was shivering and remembered that she had left the window open. She moved to close it, gazing out over the rain-soaked yard. She sighed, depressed by the grayness of the day. Yuckola.
She glanced at the clock and started to dress. Today would be a quiet day on the base, with all of the astronauts crashing at home after their week of stress testing. All of the astronauts but Al. God only knew where he had taken off to. It was a perfect day to overhaul the Command Module Simulator—something she had been meaning to do for the better part of a month.
At last, dressed, painted, bejeweled, and ready for work, Elsa descended into the main body of the house. She flicked on the light in the kitchen and closed the window over the sink, too. She opened the fridge, and stood for a minute staring at the contents, but nothing looked appealing. She had learned quite early on in the relationship that everyone was better off if Al didn't do the grocery shopping. Her natural tendency to rebel against such a stereotypically female chore had been quickly overridden by his propensity for coming home with the most bizarre and useless articles. Today, though, she could have done with a little spontaneity.
After considerable deliberation she took a couple of apples out of the crisper. She washed them and cut them into fine wedges, then put them into a bowl and sprinkled a thin layer of cinnamon and sugar over them. She draped herself over one of the stools by the counter and ate mechanically, lost in vague musings. When she was finished she rinsed her dishes and snatched her car keys out of the dish next to the sink. She grabbed too quickly, however, and they slipped through her fingers, landing with a musical jingling on the tiles.
Sighing a little, she bent to pick them up, then jumped back with a sharp gasp of alarm. There was a person under the table!
When the initial shock began to fade to a thunderous hammering in her chest, she knelt on the floor to take another cautious look. What she saw was at once bizarre, pitiful and utterly repulsive.
Al was lying on his side in the narrow space between the front legs of the six chairs, limbs curled tightly into the fetal position, his head resting at an odd angle on the hard floor. He was facing towards her, and she could see that he was fast asleep, his lips pale and his brow furrowed ever so slightly into a frown of discomfort. The scars marking his bare skin were made scarcely visible by the whiteness of his flesh, but one or two of the thickest marks seemed to burn her eyes. He was shivering subtly, but even that seemed insufficient to pierce through his weary slumber.
Elsa's astonishment quickly gave way to anger. So this was how he wanted to play, was it? They had fought, and instead of trying to apologize for his behavior he had decided to try psychological warfare. Well, two could play at that game! She got indignantly to her feet and yanked away the chair nearest his face.
He cringed, shrinking away. "N-no, please…" he stuttered, still not quite awake.
Elsa stamped her foot, the heel of her pump ringing very satisfyingly against the tile. Al gasped and jerked out of her line of vision. Then the chairs on the other side of the table shuddered as he made contact with a grunt of pain, and the whole table shook as he sat up and his head connected with its underside with sundering force. A harsh oath sounded out, followed quickly by silence.
"Come out of there!" Elsa commanded. There was no response. "Come out, Albert Calavicci!" she repeated.
Still, he made no reply. After a moment she knelt again.
He was sitting with his back against the far leg of the table, one knee drawn up to his chest and the other leg curled around the opposite foot. He clutched the raised leg with his left arm, scrubbing his face furiously with his right hand. His skin had gone a strange shade of gray and he seemed to be muttering to himself. Knowing what an actor he could be, Elsa wasn't fooled for a minute.
"You get out of there!" she said. "You make me sick!"
"Elsa…" he exhaled. "God damn it. God damn it."
"Out! What do you think you are doing down there like that?" she demanded. He wouldn't meet her eyes. He just kept rubbing at his face. "Stop it! Calavicci!"
At that last sharp exclamation Al looked up in alarm, and suddenly Elsa realized that his eyes were brimming with unshed tears and a strange despair. He was an actor, but he was not that good. Suddenly frightened for his well-being, she extended her hand into his unorthodox shelter.
"Al," she coaxed. "Al, come out of there."
He shook his head, hiding his eyes again. "I'm fine," he rasped.
"The heck you say!" she scoffed. "Now come here at once!"
He flinched at the note of command in her tone, but crept forward. She took hold of his arm and drew him up out of his hiding place and onto shaking legs. He stood with his shoulders stooped and his head down, like a child who had been caught in the midst of a profoundly shameful act. His arm was limp in her hand, devoid of all resistance. Elsa frowned. This wasn't like him at all.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral. If she had misjudged and this was emotional blackmail from last night's fight, then she would be ready to spring into offensive mode. If something was really wrong…
Elsa released her grip on his wrist, and his arm fell limply to his side. He stood, lost in catatonia and unable or unwilling to meet her eyes.
If something was really wrong, she realized, she would have no idea what to do. Communal living was a skill, and after fourteen years alone she was woefully out of practice. As long as everything continued amicably she would have no difficulties, but if things started to take a turn for the worse Elsa didn't need a psychologist to tell her that she would be out of her depth.
She realized abruptly that Al had not replied. She frowned. "Albert Calavicci, answer me," she said firmly, taking a step forward. "What are you doing?"
As she moved towards him he withdrew with a faint gasp, skirting around the table as if she was a threat from which he could not escape. He stumbled a little as he stepped backwards, and caught himself on the table. The tablecloth buckled under his fingers. He glanced towards it in surprise, and then pulled it towards him, wrapping the rectangle of fabric around his shoulders and hugging it to his body. "Nothing," he said hoarsely.
"Yes, nothing, I'm sure," she said sarcastically. "Why were you sleeping under the table?"
He muttered something inaudible.
"What?" she prompted.
"I'm tired," he repeated.
"Hah! And what is wrong with the bed?" demanded Elsa. Her tone made Al flinch. That, too, was completely unlike him. Even at the height of his claustrophobia crisis he had been proud, defiant and angry. The timid, frightened affect that he was displaying now was new and disconcerting. "Or if you did not want to lie with me there is a guest room, and a sofa. Why underneath the kitchen table?"
He whispered something. Elsa frowned.
"Safe?" she repeated. He nodded, gripping himself more tightly and turning a little further away from her. She pursed her lips. This evasiveness was worse than his bizarre behavior. "What do you mean, safe?"
Al's eyes flickered up to her face for a moment, vulnerable and fearful. Then suddenly they hardened. "You wouldn't understand," he said huskily. Then he turned and walked unsteadily through the dining room into the living room.
Elsa followed, unwilling to let it go at that. Al was sitting on the edge of the sofa, still wrapped in the tablecloth and once again scouring his face with one hand. She sat down next to him and leaned forward into a posture of attentiveness.
"Al," she said, softening her voice so much that she found it sickeningly gentle. "Al, are you ill? Do you need a doctor?"
He shook his head. "Hell, no," he muttered. "I'm fine. I'm just tired. God, I'm so tired."
Timidly, unsure of his reaction, Elsa put her hand upon his shoulder. Al stiffened at the touch, and then abruptly he melted into it, curling towards her and letting his head fall onto her shoulder. She brought her other hand around to embrace him, easing him back against the cushions.
"Elsa, I'm tired," he said meekly. "Last night… last night I couldn't even sleep. I couldn't sleep." There was a faint note of panic in his voice as he repeated the last words.
"So you tried to sleep on the floor in the kitchen?" she asked, now completely confused.
"It felt… it felt right…" Al murmured helplessly. " 'M sorry…"
He was still shivering. Elsa held him tighter, rubbing his arm consolingly. "Maybe we should get you too bed, hey?" she asked. She had always wondered what the fallout from crisis training was like for the astronauts. She decided now that she really did not want to know. Elsa felt a pang of sympathy for Lauren Taggert, who was probably even now coping with similar nonsense from Jim.
"It felt right," Al repeated. His eyes were blinking sluggishly, and each time his lids lifted they had lost altitude.
"Okay, so it felt right," Elsa said. She bent over him to kiss his clammy forehead.
Abruptly he was grabbing at her head, trying to bring his lips up to his. She released her hold on his body and shifted into a less awkward position. They kissed, long and hard, and then Al started fumbling with the buttons on her blouse.
"Elsa, Elsa," he muttered. "Elsa."
His kisses grew more ravenous, and there was a definite need in his motions. Elsa would have loved to indulge him: after all, hadn't she been regretting the absence of a passionate apology less than half an hour ago? But she was going to be late. She took hold of each of his wrists, arresting the motion of his groping hands as she pushed his arms down into his lap.
"Not now, Al," she said firmly. "I need to go to work."
"But—" He looked up, eyes wide and desolate. Then he schooled his features back into impassive lines. "Sure, of course you do," he said flatly. "Go ahead, doll. Have a great day, huh?"
"I probably will: no astronauts to make trouble!" Elsa said, fixing her clothing and smoothing her hair. "You get some sleep," she said. "You're too tired."
"Damn, is that right," he said grimly, drawing his fingers along his brow. He looked down at his tablecloth-swathed body and frowned ruefully. "Maybe a shower first, though," he said.
"Yes, a shower," Elsa agreed. "Then sleep in a bed. You scared my life out of me!"
"The life," he corrected. Now he looked more like himself, though still gray-hued and abstractedly haunted. Elsa stood up, pausing to kiss him one more time. Then she returned to the kitchen, retrieved her purse from the counter, and left the house. She tried all the way to the Cape to make sense of what had happened, but she couldn't. Then she lost herself in the task at hand and did not think about Al again until she turned homeward at the end of the day.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMThe savory aroma of Italian cooking greeted Elsa as she entered the house. She went straight through to the kitchen, where Al was putting the finishing touches on an uncommonly extravagant supper, singing to himself as he worked. When he saw her he crossed the room and kissed her quickly on the cheekbone.
"Hey, gorgeous!" he said. "How's things?"
"Fine… you made supper," she said. "That's nice."
"Always is! I'm one hell of a cook!" Al took a jaunty step towards the sink and shook out a strainer full of Romaine lettuce. "If you want to break out the wine, that'd be a big help!"
Elsa went to the fridge for the half-finished bottle of Chianti they had been nursing this month. As she did so she raked her eyes surreptitiously over Al. There was no sign of the disorder and confusion of this morning. His face was back to its normal color, and his expression and bearing were buoyant. She hesitated, not sure if she wanted to jeopardize this sunny mood by bringing up the strangeness that had started off their day. A startled thrill of self-beratement seized her. She had never been afraid to say what she was thinking, and she wouldn't start now!
"Are you going to tell me now why you spent last night under the kitchen table?" she asked.
Al shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time!" he said brightly. "Though I gotta tell you, I'm not used to it. My neck's killing me."
Elsa thought dryly that he wasn't moving like a person whose neck was killing him, but she didn't want to grill him about his aches and pains. She was much more interested in getting inside that impossible brain.
"You said something about it being safe. How is it safe?"
"Well, if an earthquake hits I'll be protected!" Al said, his voice light and cheerful.
"Al, please, is there something wrong? Are you sick?"
He raised the back of his hand to his forehead. "I don't think I've got a temperature," he said. Then he sidled towards her, playing his fingers on each of her hips. "Of course, if you think I could use a little intensive care…"
She frowned. "A little what?"
His smile vanished. "Beth used to love that line," he muttered darkly, turning away.
Elsa felt a pang of remorse. "Oh, Al, I am not Beth," she said.
"Damned right."
Elsa stiffened. That wasn't what he was supposed to say! He was supposed to say that that was how he liked it, that he was glad that she was here and that he had married her, not that damned right she wasn't his first wife.
"Oh, well, if I'm not good enough—" she began heatedly.
"Dammit, Elsa, of course you're good enough!" Al snapped, spinning around and grabbing her shoulders. She tilted her head proudly, determined not to be won over this way. "God, you're beautiful," he said, lunging in and kissing her, almost violently.
She pulled away, thrusting out her chin. Sure she wanted to sleep with him, but she was not going to do it on these terms, as a surrogate for a woman who had not been a part of her husband's life for almost a decade. "The supper will get cold," she said, her voice hard.
His hand twitched and released her, his expression unreadable. "Sure," he said flatly, turning away. "Sure. The supper. Let's eat."
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMThe crew of Apollo 20 was announced two weeks later. It was the most picture-perfect crew that NASA had ever put together. The LEM pilot was Jim Taggert, a handsome young Air Force officer with a pretty, rosy-cheeked wife very obviously pregnant with their first child. Then there was Clem Jacobs, the Command Module pilot, who had a photogenic, All-American family with an Eagle Scout son, an eight-year-old daughter who had placed first in her category at the Florida State science fair, and a five-year-old girl with the most adorable crop of golden curls and a propensity for spouting such gems of PR genius as "Daddy, Daddy, are you going to the moo-oo-oo-oon?" Last but certainly not least, there was Mission Commander Albert Calavicci, one-time prisoner of war and American hero, whose beautiful, redheaded bride was either a brilliant scientist and a computer expert, or an elite KGB agent, or just a real doll, depending who you asked.
At the impromptu reception thrown for the astronauts (and more importantly the press), everyone was too busy asking Lieutenant Commander Calavicci questions that ranged from the infinitely standard to the unreasonably personal to notice that he and his wife did not touch one another even once that whole evening.