The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(13)

His breath shuddered in my ear. “But you and Nathaniel are alive.”

“Do you know … how did Charleston fare?”

“The city was hit by tidal waves, but a lot of people were able to evacuate.” Then he answered the question I was actually asking. “We haven’t heard from Grandma, or any of the aunts.”

“Well … I had a time getting a clear circuit through.”

Doris said something, and Hershel’s voice muffled for a moment. “What? Yes … yes, I’ll ask.”

His wife had always been the more organized of the two, even while they were courting. I smiled, picturing the list that she was probably making right now.

“Where are you? What do you need? Are you hurt?”

“We’re at the Wright-Patterson base in Ohio. Well, actually, we’re at the home of the Lindholms, who have taken us in tonight. So, don’t worry. I’m well taken care of.” I glanced over my shoulder. Mrs. Lindholm had cut the sandwich into neat quarters and trimmed the crust off. “In fact, I should probably go, since I’m calling on her phone.”

“Next time, call me collect.”

“I’ll call tomorrow, if the circuits aren’t busy. Give my love to Doris and the children.”

When I hung up, I stood with my head against the wall, as if the mint green paint could cool my forehead. I think it was only a moment.

One of the chairs creaked as if Mrs. Lindholm had sat down, so I gathered myself and straightened. Daddy had always said that deportment was important for an officer and a lady. “Thank you. My brother has been very worried.”

“I’m sure I would be too.” She had set the sandwich on a bright teal plate and then centered it in the middle of a placemat. Next to the plate stood a glass of water with beads of condensation on its side.

The mundanity of the kitchen, the ticking clock on the wall, the hum of the refrigerator, and this kind woman with her sandwiches, placemats, and flannel pajamas seemed completely separate from the world I had been in all day. The images of the burned children on the television might as well have been on Mars for all the connection they had to here.

The chair creaked as I sat, and my joints ached with frustration. As I’d been taught, I put the napkin in my lap, and picked up the first quarter of the sandwich. I was lucky. We had owned a plane and a way to get out.

“Is the sandwich all right?”

I had eaten a quarter of it and not noticed. My mouth tasted of dying fish and rotting pickles. I smiled for my hostess. “Delicious.”





FIVE





TIDAL WAVE STRIKES VENEZUELA


CARACAS, Venezuela, March 4, 1952—(AP)—A tidal wave, believed to be caused by the meteorite which struck off the coast of North America, hit the port of Vela de Coro, inflicting heavy damages, reports to the Government said today. Ships anchored in the western Venezuela port were destroyed, and many houses along the waterfront were flattened, the reports said. The extent of the casualties is not yet known.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep on the couch. I woke up to Nathaniel’s touch on my forehead. The light from the kitchen streamed into the dark living room and caught on the white dress shirt he wore. He was clean and had showered, and for a disorienting moment, I thought that I had dreamed it all.

“Hey…” He smiled and brushed the hair back from my forehead again. “Do you want to sleep out here, or go to the bedroom?”

“When did you get ho—back?” I sat up, stretching the crick out of my neck. One of Mrs. Lindholm’s afghans had been pulled up over my shoulder, and the television was a dark ghost in the corner.

“Just now. Major Lindholm brought me.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “He’s making a sandwich.”

“Did you get something to eat?”

He nodded. “They fed us in the meeting.”

Nathaniel offered his hand and helped me to my feet. All of the cuts and aches and bruises that I had acquired during the day found me in the dark. The backs of my calves burned with each step. Even my arms protested, as I folded the afghan. Was it too soon to take another aspirin? “What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight.”

If he was only just now getting back, the situation was not good. In the dim light his features were too blurred to read. In the kitchen, Major Lindholm scraped his knife across a plate. I set the afghan down. “Let’s go back to the bedroom.”

He followed me down the dimly lit hall to the room that Mrs. Lindholm had put us in. It had belonged to her eldest son, Alfred, who was off at Caltech getting a degree in engineering. While there was a “Leopards” pennant from his high school, the partially assembled Erector set and the Jules Verne collection might have come out of my childhood room. Everything else was plaid or red, which I suspected was his mother’s touch.

When the door was closed, Nathaniel reached for the light, but I stopped him. For a little while longer, I wanted to be in the safety of the night. Here, with just the two of us, and no radio to remind us, we might just be visiting someone. My husband pulled me into his arms and I leaned against him, nestling my cheek into the contour of his chest.

Nathaniel rested his chin against my head and ran his hands through my still-damp hair. He smelled of an unfamiliar minty soap.

I nestled against him. “You showered on base?”