CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
If Albert Calavicci had been a national hero for his valiant and silent struggle in the forgotten depths of the jungles of Vietnam, and his role in saving the last two Apollo missions, then for his part in the very-nearly-disastrous flight of Apollo 20 the media deified him. Before the capsule even splashed down the whole world knew the story. The spaceman who had kept the mission from being aborted in its first minutes had gone on to execute an entertaining and hugely successful landing, and then endured a wholesale failure of the LEM's computers. Even the foremost experts NASA had to offer couldn't help. So Calavicci had taken matters into his own hands, choosing life over equipment, and removing himself and his pilot from the useless spacecraft. Somehow they were not quite in position, and that! Ah! That was when Calavicci had performed his most courageous act of self-sacrifice and unfettered daring, and offered to lay down his life so that his fellow astronaut could live! Such intelligence! Such strength of will! Such bravery! And despite the crisis Commander Calavicci had brought home every photograph and video shot on the moon, and the rocks chosen especially for the children of his crew!
The day after splashdown there were photo shoots and press conferences, and the astronauts had to tell the story over and over again. Al had even given a brief account in Spanish for the benefit of the minority audience, a display on which the media had positively doted.
Then it was up to Washington to meet with the President and accept Congress's superlative congratulations and be stuck so full of medals that by the end of it Al felt like a pincushion who had seen much better days. Jim and Clem were by no means forgotten, but for some reason the lion's share of the honor was heaped on Commander Calavicci. The President had ribbons to bestow upon him, and then there were various trinkets from Congress. Of course the Navy had to put in their two bits' worth, and the Air Force had medals too. There were speeches and photographs, interviews and all manner of accolades.
Washington had been one big cocktail party after that, as the astronauts went from function to function, schmoozing with Congressmen and parochial politicians on the make. The last night was the best: a private supper at the White House, just the President, the three astronauts, Admiral Holloway and his counterpart from the Air Force while Lauren and Ramona dined with the First Lady. Once everyone got over the initial awkwardness and past the fact that a rancher's son from Texas, a North Dakota prairie boy, and a gutter rat from one of the worst neighborhoods in New York were eating at the same table as three of the most powerful men in the world, it was actually a delightful meal—five seasoned soldiers and one moderately clumsy civilian supping with camaraderie and good humor. The worst part of the evening was when it came time to say goodnight, and Mrs. Ford asked why Elsa had been unable to attend. Holloway had made the catch, which was good, because Al had no explanation. Apparently Elsa was down with a nasty winter bug, and her physician didn't want her out of his sight. Well, it sounded good, anyway.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAl closed the door of the private suite on the nineteenth floor of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, leaning back against it and coughing a thick, phlegmy cough. Good old New York. There had been a ticker-tape parade that morning, ending in Central Park, where Al and the other two—but really mostly Al—had received public congratulations from the Secretary General of the United Nations, several ambassadors, and Pierre Trudeau, the buoyant, curly-haired Prime Minister of Canada. Then the mayor had presented Al, "our native son", with the keys to the city—a ritual Al had thought had gone out of vogue with steam engines, hoop skirts, and stovepipe hats. Be that as it may, gracious acceptance was clearly what was expected, and so that was what he delivered. It was easier that way.
Spending the entire day in the open air, as cold and damp as any New York winter he remembered, wearing only his dress uniform, had done nothing to help his chest, however. Tired beyond words, Al stripped carefully down and went into the bathroom for a scalding shower.
He emerged red as a lobster and tender as an overdone potato, and collapsed into bed. The luxuriant flannel sheets caressed his bare skin like the hands of a woman—
He scowled. Damn it, he wished Elsa were here! He really coulda used a warm body to cuddle tonight. He couldn't say why the idea of shacking up with another girl was taboo—there had certainly been more than enough of them swooning over his uniform and hollering his name today—but it was. He was married to Elsa, even if she was chomping at the bit to divorce him, and he just couldn't pick up a doll off a street corner… though there seemed to be plenty of willing girls begging to volunteer.
It wasn't fair. Why the hell did he have to be tied down by a sham of a marriage?
Seeking catharsis, he flicked on the television, but the only channel that wasn't playing news reports about the mission or Commander Calavicci's victory tour (always the press played up Jim and Clem as sidekicks) was running The Boy With The Green Hair—a movie that always made Al feel strangely desolate and empty. That was exactly what he didn't need, so he shut down the idiot box. The light was next, but he tossed in the darkness, unable to quiet his rambling mind or settle his weary body. He had to fight to remain in bed, quelling the urge to get out and find a patch of hard floor to curl up on. Presently the cough started up again, rattling in his lungs and hurting him dreadfully.
His feet found the floor and his hands scoped out his suitcase. Inside was a bottle of Scotch—a gift from Gerald. He groped for a glass on the table by the window and poured. The liquor burned its way down his throat, banishing the cough and relaxing his taught muscles. Another glass, and his mind started to let go of its death grip on reality. He was halfway through the third when he found his way back to bed. The sheets were even more inviting now, and as he drained the glass and began to drift towards slumber he reflected that it was almost as good as having a woman to caress and curl drowsily around.
Almost.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAfter two more days in New York the astronauts were flown out to North Dakota, to put on a similar show in Bismarck. The Governor had a special citation for each of them, and a very long-winded speech that smacked of an impending election campaign. From there the convoy from NASA, a comet followed by a tail of reporters, made their way to Jim's hometown, a little place called Ellendale near the South Dakota border.
This quickly became Al's favorite stop of the whole ridiculous tour. To begin, instead of holing up in isolation in a luxury hotel, with a convenient lobby to house the carrion from press-houses across the country, he was invited to avail himself of the second spare bedroom at Jim's parents' place. Mr. and Mrs. Taggert were wonderful people, even if they did share that same bad habit of gushing over the way that Al had saved Jim's life, as if he had had any choice in the matter. Jim's sisters, both of whom lived in town, were more circumspect in that regard, and instead doted copiously on Jeremy. Taggert's nieces and nephews were all old enough to ask endless questions, but they were much more interested in interrogating him about the lunar rover and playing baseball on the moon than they were in the fool's rescue he had performed. That suited Al just fine.
The first day there was yet another media circus, albeit a smaller one. The press were not quite so enamored of this hometown welcome as they had been of New York's. That was ironic, because Ellendale had obviously loved little Jimmy Taggert a whole lot more than the Big Apple had ever even bothered to think about ragged young Al Calavicci. Though not so grand as the cosmopolitan performance, the parade arranged for the astronauts here was much more personable. Maybe it was the fact that the cheering crowds assembled on the sidewalks were braving sub-zero temperatures to do so. Maybe it was the way they would call Jim by name or cry out their praise of Jeremy, who was scarcely more than a bundle of plush in his blue snowsuit and matching scarf. Maybe it was the members of the high school football team, decked out in parkas and mittens, tossing lollipops at the kids watching the spectacle. Whatever the case, it was obvious that Jim was and always had been a well-known and well-loved member of the community.
The bitter prairie cold wasn't Al's cup of tea. The dry winter air irritated his lungs even worse than the damp in New York had, but the weather was not without its perks. That first night at the Taggerts', standing in the light and the warmth with a mug of hot apple cider, watching out the window while the press waded around in the knee-deep snow had been a positively religious experience!
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAl awoke the next morning coughing up a lung. A globule of thick, green mucous came up in his hand and with a shudder of revulsion he hurried down the hall to the bathroom to wash. Even after all this time, the feeling of bodily fluids on his skin had him instantly back in the jungle, coated in layer upon layer of accrued filthy, most but not all his own.
A shower and a shave helped chase away the phantoms, and eased the cough a little. Then Al dressed in his warmest clothes—probably still inadequate for these draconian climes. The three men had a day's furlough, granted so that Jim could celebrate a belated Christmas with his family… on the condition that he let the guys from Life come in at three o'clock to snap some photos. Al thought that was despicable, but Jim didn't seem to mind. Then again, Jim hadn't had his marriage ripped apart at the seams by the press, had he?
Al was going to hit the streets, maybe check out the library or catch a movie at the playhouse. More likely he would find a quiet bar and nurse his chest cold. He knew when he wasn't wanted.
He got no further than the kitchen when he met his first protest. It came in the form of Lauren, who said that he had to stay and celebrate with them.
"After all!" she cried, turning on the waterworks in that absolutely innocent way that only she could. "After all, we wouldn't even have Jim this Christmas if… if… if…"
Her distress had brought her mother-in-law into the fray, and shortly after Jim's sisters had materialized out of nowhere. Last of all came the menfolk, but the verdict remained the same. Al decided at last that, having spent the last year pretending for NASA and the press, he was entitled to pretend a little for himself. He could pretend that these wonderful people really wanted him, and he could have a proper holiday.
The food was unbelievable in quantity, quality and variety. Then there were presents—Jeremy and his cousins cleaned up, all right. Al didn't remember having even seen as many toys in his childhood as these kids received in one day. With typical first-Christmas finesse, Jeremy spent most of the day playing with a hologram-printed gift bag.
The adults exchanged presents on a more modest scale: chocolates and socks and bath oils. Al sat on the floor in the corner by the tree, hugging his knees with one arm and helping Jim's eldest nephew build his Lego set with the other hand, feeling progressively more out of place as the others began to reminisce about Christmases past. Finally, Jim clapped his hands.
"Ma!" he said. "Time for the Christmas slippers!"
The kids cheered, and the adults applauded the idea. Jeremy, who clearly had no idea what was going on, laughed and put the gift bag over his round little head. Al tried to muster a smile, even though he was about as with it as the baby.
"Every Christmas Ma makes everybody a pair of slippers," Jim explained. "Has as long as I can remember."
"Ah," Al said, still trying to smile enthusiastically. "Wonderful!"
Mrs. Taggert was circulating with brightly-wrapped, squishy packages, stating the name of each person as she set one in their lap. "For Thomas. Melanie. Dora. Megan. Mark. Wendy. Oscar. Christina. Jim. Jeremy! Robby. Lauren. Chester… and Al!"
She set a package on top of his knees. Al stared at it. Around him, the others were ripping theirs open, laughing and comparing colors. With careful fingers, he unwrapped the little parcel, drawing out a pair of knitted Phentex slippers in Naval blue and gold. He stared at them, this very personal, familial gift from this group of total strangers, and bit the inside of his cheek so that he wouldn't start crying.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMThe next day, there was a potluck lunch and assembly at the local arena, cleared out for this specific purpose and bedecked with streamers and banners. The astronauts were the guests of honor, speeched at by important citizens and revered by the crowds of locals. Through an arrangement between Jim's elementary school and the boys from Public Relations, the crew of Apollo 20 were signing photographs for and visiting with kids from town and the surrounding rural communities. Al liked this enormously: it was so much better than sweet-talking politicians and reliving the jettison for corporate barons. You could make a kid's day just by telling him how fast a Saturn V rocket could go. Surrounded by fresh, smiling young faces he reflected that the only group he'd rather be worshipped by was that knot of gorgeous young ladies laughing over in the corner.
When the party was winding down, and almost the last of the townsfolk had gone home—except for the clean-up crews—Al leaned back in his folding chair and grinned enormously.
"This is quite the town, kid," he told Jim.
"Sure is," Jim agreed, dandling his little boy on his knee.
"Too damned cold," Clem said, yawning and stretching his limbs.
Al chuckled at the undeniable truth of that statement.
"Actually, summers around here are scorchers," a voice behind them said. "California has nothing on the Dakotas there."
Al turned, and grinned. "Dirk Simon!" he exclaimed. "How are you? I had a letter from Ana before I went up… she says you've been a great help, and—"
He stopped. There was a kind of blank look of pain in the lawyer's eyes, and Dirk was making every effort not to look directly at him. Then Al noticed the kid standing next to him. A boy, maybe six or seven years old, with sandy hair and the most beautiful hazel eyes Al had seen in a long time.
"Who's this?" Al asked pleasantly, smiling at the kid, who was staring up at him as if he was the Second Coming. Staring up at him with deep, magnificent hazel eyes that made him want to take the little boy in his arms and embrace him, then give him the moon and the stars and anything else he wanted.
"This is Mikey," Dirk said. "My oldest boy. He's a bit of an expert on your mission, and when I heard you—all three of you—were stopping by so close… I figured he might like to come out and see you. You know, in person." He gave the boy a tiny, prompting push. "Right, sport?"
Mikey nodded, his eyes growing still wider as Al, dress uniform and all, got down on one knee and extended a companionable hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Mikey," he said, shaking hands. "I'm Al."
"I know!" Mikey gasped, pointing from one astronaut to the next as he said their names. "Al, Jim, Clem! You went to the moon!"
The others laughed, but Al nodded solemnly. "So we did, son. I hear you're an expert on the mission."
"Y-yes, sir! Yes sir!" Mikey exclaimed.
"Mikey was hoping you'd sign a picture for him," Dirk said, staring adamantly at the rafters. "So he could paste it on the back of his door."
An awed, frightened look came across the boy's face. Al smiled reassuringly. "Sure, we can do that," he said. "How 'bout it, fellas?"
Soon enough, an autographed photo of the crew found its way into the child's hands. He stared at it soberly, holding it at arms length as if he could hardly believe it was there. The exquisite hazel eyes were glassy with amazement.
"Well, how'd you like a little something?" Al asked. He didn't know why he was doing this. What he had in his breast pocket, what he had been carrying with him since the splashdown, what he was now about to give to this kid he'd just met, had been meant to be his souvenir of his voyage. His private commemorative artefact of this chapter in his life. But this kid… he wanted to see those eyes smile. They called out to his soul, and he had to see them smile. No price was too high. He dug in his pocket and drew out a sliver of whitish stone.
Mikey put out his hand instinctively, and took it. "You know what that is?" Al asked, as the little fist closed around it.
"It's a moon rock!" Mikey cried, gazing at it in wonder.
"That's right. Picked it up just for you," Al told him.
"Just for me?" Mikey echoed.
"Just for Mikey Simon," Al agreed.
There was a silence.
"What do you say, Mike?" Dirk asked.
The dam burst and a radiant smile spread across the small face—the kind of smile Al had had rare enough occasion to form during his own childhood. He didn't know jack about kids, but he could tell that this moment something magical was happening for that little boy. The hazel eyes lit up like diamonds, and a pang of bittersweet exultation that Al didn't understand ripped through his chest. When the kid dove forward to hug him, he accepted the embrace gladly, wrapping his arms around the boy.
"Thank you, thank you, Commander Al!" he exclaimed.
"Sure, no problem, sport," Al said.
Then Mikey pulled away, retreating to his father's side with the moon rock in one fist, and the photograph in the other. Al got to his feet as Dirk held out his hand.
"Thanks," he said flatly. "That means a lot to the kid."
Al grinned enormously and shook the lawyer's hand. "Sure," he said. "Least I could do."