Robert Tine - The Astronaut's Wife

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THE ASTRONAUT’S WIFE

ROBERT TINE

THE ASTRONAUT’S WIFE

in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth

Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

ISBN: 0-312-97018-8

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition I August 1999

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press,

175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Prologue

There were times when Jillian Armacost felt as if she didn’t have a life—not a real one. It was

more that she and her husband were controlled by, and were wholly owned subsidiaries of, a

government agency. In this case it was the one that one Americans seemed to love and trust

above all others: the National Aeronautics and Space Administration— NASA—that crew-cut,

square-jawed, can-do, Houston-we-have-a-problem organization. Of all the government

offspring that Americans mistrusted, they mistrusted NASA the least.

And it took a lot of work to win that trust. If NASA was an old-fashioned movie studio, then

the astronauts were the stars, their wives the contract players. Each of them was bound by

ironclad contracts—contracts that put the interest of NASA ahead of anything else. On the face

of things, this was the case—at least, it was certainly the case with the astronauts themselves.

They had worked hard to get to where they were, climbing the steep and

slippery military ladder as fliers for the Marine Corps, the United States Navy, and the U.S. Air

Force. To have achieved flight status for NASA put you at the top of the heap; it marked you as

the best, not just in the armed forces of the United States of America, but as the best in the

world. And this crop of fliers was said to be the best ever.

Spencer Armacost was part of this and, on the face of things, his wife Jillian imagined that he

gave himself over to the spirit of NASA completely. But sometimes she caught a look in his

eyes, a slight frown, a tiny gesture that suggested that sometimes he hadn’t quite been able to

bring himself to buy the whole NASA story. They were married, they were exceptionally close.

But she could never bring herself to ask Spencer about it. It would have been too much like

treason.

Fred Astaire was singing about trouble coming.

All this is not to suggest that Spencer Armacost was your typical bleeding-NASA-blue flier.

He knew enough to know a stupid order when he heard One, he knew that NASA was more than

likely to make a mistake—.and he knew it long before the Challenger disaster claimed the lives

of six astronauts and the civilian Christa McAuliffe.

Fred Astaire continued, singing about moonlight and -love.

Spencer was a thoughtful, well-read man with a passion for flying. He was also the only

member of the next shuttle mission who knew anything at all about the career of Fred Astaire—a

fact which set

him well apart from his fellow fliers who tended to have more red-meat tastes in movies. If they

ever saw movies at all, that is.

Fred Astaire was concluding: the only thing to do was dance.

Jillian and Spencer were sprawled in their big bed and you could read the history of that short

evening in the archeology of the debris spread around them. On the floor, at the base of the bed

was an empty bottle of pinot noir and two stemmed glasses, both drained to the dregs. Next to

them were some simple white-and-blue pasta bowls, a few strands of spaghettini nestled in a

pool of sauce at the bottom. Closer to the bed was a pair of men’s pants, bunched and snarled as

if they had been hastily kicked off; nearby, as light as a small sheet of gossamer, a pair of pearl-

colored women’s panties.

The languor of the couple in their bed, their limbs intertwined, told the rest of the story. Their

eyes were soft and tired as they watched the movie, their faces lit by the flickering of the

television set, the black-and-white movie washing their skin a pale blue. And they stared at it

fixedly, as if as long as the movie ran they could keep the real world at bay for a few more

moments.

Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers danced a vigorous pas de deux on the deck of a Hollywood-

class battleship as chorus boys dressed as grizzled old salts danced behind them.

Spencer shifted slightly but kept his eyes on the television set. “You know,” he said, “this flies

in the face of everything I know about the United States Navy...”

His wife smiled and ran her fingers through his hair. “Is that so? Too bad you didn’t join up.”

Spencer stretched. “Well, this was made in 1936 or ‘37—before the big build up for the

Second World War. I guess the Navy was just different back then.”

“I guess everything changed after Pearl Harbor,” Jillian said, laying back on her pillow.

“There’s nothing like a sneak attack from a hostile foreign power to ruin a good fleet song-and-

dance routine. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Uh-huh.” But it seemed that her husband had lost interest in the joke. His eyes were locked

on the screen of the television set with more intensity than a light bit of fluff musical like the

Astaire-Rogers musical Follow the Fleet would seem to require. It was as if he was hearing the

music and the words, seeing the images for the first time and was completely enchanted by them.

Jillian, by contrast, looked less than pleased. “I hate this part,” she said.

Spencer looked away from the television screen long enough to shoot a quick glance at his

wife. Then his eyes flicked back to the screen. The whole gesture had taken no more than a split

second. “This part?” he said. “This part is the best part.. .“ He added his own voice to Fred

Astaire’s, matching him word for word, phrase for phrase.

Jillian put out a soft hand and touched his face, turning him to face her. She looked him in the

eye. “No,” she said softly. “That’s not what I mean... It’s this part”—she gestured weakly with

her hands as if encompassing the entire room— “this part right now. The part right before you

leave. I know you’re still here but I know you are leaving, too. I hate this.. .“

Spencer leaned over and kissed his wife softly on the forehead. “I’ll call you.”

Jillian half smiled and slapped at him weakly. “Don’t you dare tease me, Spencer Armacost.’”

It stood between them like an unbridgeable moat—the mission, Spencer’s next foray into

space in the space shuttle Victory, the latest and most technologically advanced spacecraft in

history. On one hand, on a rational level, Jillian could understand the importance of the Victory

missions in the professional and even the spiritual life of her husband. To be a crew member of

the space shuttle was considered the absolute epitome of a military flier’s career.

Spencer Armacost had attained these lofty heights by dint of hard work and innate exceptional

skill; he was the first to acknowledge, however, that his climb to the top had been facilitated by

the deft diplomacy of his beautiful and thoughtful wife. Skill counted for a large part of the

equation that added up to a shuttle pilot, but the right wife—the kind of wife who could charm a

strategically placed general or thaw the purse strings gripped in the hands of a doubting

senator——did not hurt.

The object of the game was to get Spencer a

place on the shuttle crew and Jillian Armacost had worked assiduously to see that he got it. But

once the goal had been achieved, she found that the slightest bud of resentment had taken root

somewhere deep inside her..

To the average American television viewer, watching a three-second clip of a shuttle launch—

usually the seventh or eighth item on the evening news—these expensive excursions into space

had gotten to be rather routine. The layman had little understanding or interest in just what went

on up there, but the missions, which always seemed to have something to do with satellites, were

generally judged to be Good Things For America: it was prestigious and, it was said, those

satellites did everything from improving television reception to giving the United States a series

of all-seeing eyes high above the earth.

But there was another side to these missions that the man or woman in the street never heard

about, probably never even considered. There was a spiritual side to these immense journeys, an

otherworldliness as hallowed as any Christian pilgrimage or Muslim hadj. The men who went

out there, beyond the very confines of the earth, were forever marked by the experience. So few

people had actually undergone the process, the shared pool of firsthand knowledge was so tiny,

that no one who had not actually done it could possibly understand the significance, could ever

appreciate the experience.

And so it was for Jillian and Spencer Armacost.

She dutifully sent her husband off to space—a place she could never follow—and when he

returned he was still her husband. But he was always slightly different, as if he knew secrets

now—secrets he could never share with her or with, any of the uninitiated. It was a tiny, small

brother- and sisterhood, one which excluded the vast majority of the population. A Russian

cosmonaut, grimy and exhausted after six long months on the Russian space station Mir had

more in common with Spencer Armacost than Jillian could ever hope to have.

These complex feelings she rendered down to their most simple parts. “I miss you so much

when you’re gone,” Jillian said with a sigh. “It’s horrible. I never get a full night’s sleep.”

Spencer nodded and mussed her short blond hair. “I miss you, too, Jill. Last time we were up,

Streck said that if I bellyached about ‘you one more minute, he was going to toss my ass off the

ship.” Spencer smiled crookedly. “I don’t think he would really have done it... Someone would

be bound to notice that I went up but somehow failed to make the trip down.”

Jillian harrumphed. “You can tell Streck that your ass is mine and he can keep his hands off it,

thank you very much.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am. Understood,” said Spencer briskly. “I will see to it that the commander is

given the orders as to the disposition of my ass post haste, ma’am.”

Alex Streck was Spencer’s immediate superior and mission commander. Both he and his wife

Natalie were good friends of the Armacosts, despite slight differences in age and the subtle

distinctions of rank.

“Good,” said Jillian with a little laugh. She snuggled in closer, burrowing under his arm and

pushing up against his body, as if to absorb warmth from it. “My class wants you to come in

when you get back. I think they only tolerate me to get to you.” Jillian Armacost was being

unduly modest. She was a wildly popular second grade teacher at a local Florida elementary

school. Though she did have to admit that having a husband who was an astronaut with flight

status probably gave her a little edge when it came to engaging her boisterous and rambunctious

pack of second graders.

Spencer stretched in the bed. “I might be able to arrange a visit,” he said cagily, like a gambler

trying to make the most of a less than perfect hand. “It’ll take a little bit of doing, though,” he

added.

“What will it take?” Jillian asked.

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt for you to be a little nice to me,” said Spencer, smiling.

“How nice?” Jillian asked, as if weighing her chips before she bet anything.

“Oh, you know,” said Spencer airily. “You know me... I’m just an old married man, a little

kindness goes quite a long way with an old coot like me.”

Jillian brushed her lips against his and reached down under the sheet, her hand closing around

what she discovered there. Jillian’s eyes went wide, as if

she were the virginal heroine of a nineteenth century novel.

‘Why, Mr. Armacost, whatever do you have there?”

Spencer said through a stiff upper lip, “Why, Mrs. Armeacost, whatever do you mean?”

As they melted into each other’s arms, Fred Astaire’s singing of music and dance provided the

only possible answer.

The firm and authoritative voice came through a crackling cloud of static.

“Victory, we are at T-minus thirty-one seconds, your onboard computers are functioning. Start

auto sequence.”

Mission Control was talking to the space shuffle Victory. The great pile of vehicle was

standing straight up on the launch pad, ready to blast off and head for space. The whole machine

was made up of several components: the familiar and elegant winged orbiter, two solid rocket

boosters, and a giant external tank.

Despite all the talk about onboard computers, for the next few minutes the Victory would be

dealing with a technology as complicated as an ordinary bottle rocket. Spencer and Alex Streck

and the rest of the crew were strapped into the orbiter fifteen stories above the ground, the larger

portion of which was stuffed with hundred of tons of volatile

fuel. In a moment or two, someone would set fire to it and they would be on their way.

The voice of Mission Control seemed to pervade the very air of the Cape. Jillian Armacost

had been through it so many times she could imagine every order, every check, every response

as they went over the air between Mission Control and the shut-de itself.

Jillian stood at the open French windows of her house. Far on the horizon, thrusting up into

the blue of a Florida morning sky like a skyscraper, was the shuttle and the ugly steel fretwork of

the attendant gantry. She stared out through the humid air, not quite able to believe that her

beloved husband was strapped into a seat atop that strange, rather alien contraption.

The countdown to liftoff had started and was well along. Jillian could imagine the voice. “T-

minus 14, 13, 12, 11...”

Suddenly Jillian felt a chill and she wrapped her arms around herself. She trembled slightly.

“Ten, ignition on. T-minus 9, 8, 7...”

From far off came the sound of a low rumbling. “Six... Engine start...” The rumbling grew in

intensity as the sound waves moved across the flat landscape.

“Four, 3, 2, 1. Zero and liftoff...’’

The window in front of Jillian vibrated slightly as the sound ricocheted off the thin panes. She

reached and touched the trembling glass, as if connecting herself to the sound connected her to

the

craft quivering on the horizon. It was as if the shuttle was anxious to be gone, desperate to shake

off the bounds of tiresome gravity.

Spencer spoke for the first time. “Mission Control, this is Victory. We have left the pad...” It

was a remarkably prosaic way of saying that tons of volatile fuel were burning up, pushing

another huge hunk of metal into the sky.

“Roger that, Victory,” Mission Control responded. “You are go for throttle up...

“Mission Control,” Spencer answered, “we have throttle up. It is a fine day for flying,

Houston...”

Jillian watched as the shuttle emerged from the vast blizzard of smoke, its snub nose pointed

straight toward the sky. No matter how many times Jillian had seen a launch, this great eruption

of smoke and steel, she always felt that the module rose out of the dramatic upheaval slowly and

tentatively, as if straining to make it into the sky like a weak fledgling new from the nest. It

seemed to move so slowly that she half expected the entire contraption to fall over, sloping to

one side like a tottering drunk, unable to stand the forces of staying upright for another second.

She did not know she was holding her breath, but she was.

Two minutes into the flight, the boosters were used up and separated from the craft. Whle they

appeared to float gracefully away from the main body of the vessel, the separation was actually a

gut-wrenching yank that no matter how many times Spencer felt it, it seemed as if the whole ship

was

being ripped apart. You never got used it.

“Mission Control, we are standing by for SRB separation,” said Spencer, bracing himself for

what came next.

Even worse than that first separation, though, was the next phase of the flight which came a

mere six minutes later. After about eight minutes of flight the shuttle was shaken by a terrifying

explosion, and the huge external tank separated from the main body of the vessel.

“Separation confirmed,” said Spencer. The trim of the vessel changed dramatically. It seemed

to have been shot out of a sling, picking up speed at a dramatic rate as it lost weight. “Houston,

we are at eighteen thousand knots and accelerating.”

The fire was blinding. The roaring of the engines deafening. The sky had changed in color,

from dark blue, then pale, then darkness. Houston came up:

“You are go for main engine shut-off.”

Abruptly the overwhelming roar of the engines vanished and there was no sound. No sound at

all. The silence was so complete and so sudden you could almost feel it.

The silence was pierced for a moment or two as Alex Streck fired short burns from the

shuttle’s pair of maneuvering engines. Those small blasts pushed the craft over the momentous

hump, the amazing transition from earth to space.

Spencer’s voice was conversational in tone, as if he had nothing more important to . announce

than what was for lunch. “We have main engine shut-

off,” Spencer calmly informed Mission Control. “We are now in orbit...”

Jillian spun the globe. The orb whirled around, the countries and the oceans blending together

until the whole world seemed to be a multi-colored mass. Then she put her hand out and stopped

it abruptly. She looked around the room and down at the bright faces of her second grade class.

Twenty-four boys and girls stared back at her, each one hanging on her every word.

“What do they have in Kansas?” Jillian asked. Instantly, there was a chorus of voices

responding to her question.

“Corn!”

Jillian thought for a moment to think of another question. “And what do they have in...

Georgia?”

“Peaches! “ the class answered instantly.

Jillian jabbed a tiny portion of the globe. “And what do we have right here in Florida?” she

asked.

Everyone in the class responded with alacrity. “We have oranges in Florida!”

Well, all but one said that. A lone little boy answered, “We have rocket ships!” His eyes were

bright at the very thought of such magical contraptions.

Jillian smiled at her space-obsessed pupil. “Yes, Calvin, oranges and rocket ships.”

Just then the door of the classroom opened and young girl, a child a little older than the pupils

in Jillian Armacost’s class, came bustling, bursting with self-importance, into the room.

“What is it, Lynne?” Jillian asked.

“Mrs. Whitfield sent me here with a message for you,” the girl said excitedly. Mrs. Whitfield

was the formidable principal of the elementary school.

“What’s the message?”

“Mrs. Armacost, you got a phone call!”

Phone calls at school were so out of the ordinary daily routine of the day that it was with a

mixture of apprehension tinged with a distinct sense of curiosity about who might be calling her

in the middle of the working day.

The secretaries in the school office were full of inquiring looks, consumed, as Jillian was, by

curiosity.

She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

The response was a man’s voice, a voice she did not recognize. “Is that Mrs. Armacost?”

“Yes,” she said, her heart sinking. She knew the voice of NASA when she heard it. She could

not help but wonder if something terrible had happened to her husband. “Yes, this is Jillian

Armacost.”

Jillian had guessed correctly. “This is NASA communications,” said the man. “We have your

husband for you.”

The man made it all sound so simple, as if he was putting through a call from somewhere

nearby—across town maybe—as opposed to from high up in outer space.

Jillian felt a tremor of excitement flash through her body. “You.., you have my what?”

“Stay on the line please.. .“

There was a crackle of static on the line, then Jillian heard the man say, “Go ahead,

Commander.”

There was another burst of static, as if the atmosphere was clearing its throat, then to Jillian’s

astonishment, she heard Spencer’s voice come on the line. “Jillian? Are you there?”

Jillian seemed even more surprised than she had been a moment before. “Spencer? Is that

you?”

“Can you hear me?” It was definitely Spencer’s voice, but there was an aerated, hollow

quality to it, as if they were on a very long distance call. Which, Jillian thought, was exactly what

they were doing.

“Spencer, I can’t believe this,” Jillian ex-claimed. “How did this happen?”

Through the ether, Jillian heard her husband laugh. The sound made her shiver with delight. “I

told you I’d call you,” he said, continuing to chuckle. “It’s amazing isn’t it.”

As if to compensate for the immense distance, Jillian could only shout into the phone, her

voice seeming to ring through the entire school building. “Yes, amazing,” she yelled.

There was a moment of silence as they listened to their connection, each straining to hear the

other breathe.

Finally Spencer broke the silence. And he did it in a typically Spencer fashion. “Hey, Jill?”

“Yes?”

“Tell me something. It’s really important, okay?” There was a note of urgency in his voice

that sent her levels of anxiety skyrocketing once again.

“Yes, Spencer,” she said nervously. “What is it?”

“You have to tell me . . .“

“Yes?”

“What are you wearing?” She could hear the laughter in his voice and she wanted to slap him

and kiss him at the same time. “I have to know, Jillian.”

“Spencer.. .“ said Jillian reprovingly, as if she was threatening one of her little students with a

time-out.

“Come on,” Spencer replied. “no one else is listening.. . C’mon, tell me. It’s just you and me.”

An apologetic-sounding male voice broke in on the line. “Uh, not exactly, Commander,” he

said a touch sheepishly. “Including Houston and Jet Propulsion Labs, there are about three

hundred folks on the line just at the moment.”

Spencer ignored the caution. “Jillian, are you wearing that black skirt of yours? The tight

one?”

In spite of being embarrassed Jillian laughed loudly. “Settle down, cowboy. This is a school

teacher you’re talking to, you know?”

Spencer laughed and paused a moment before continuing. “Nice day down there, huh?” he

asked. “Not a cloud in the sky, right? One of those perfect Florida days...”

“It’s beautiful here,” said Jillian. Then a weird sort of dread overcame her, a panicky feeling

that needed to be quelled immediately. He had spoken so wistfully about something so mundane,

so workaday, so not Spencer. Why would he be interested in the weather? It was as if he was

asking her about something he would never see again, something deep in his past

“Spencer,” she asked quickly, “where are you?”

Before he could answer, the voice of officialdom, the NASA voice, came back on the line

abruptly. “Thirty seconds to go, Commander,” he cautioned.

Jillian felt her panic ratchet up a notch. “Spencer, where exactly are you?”

There was a pause, the briefest delay. It could have been due to the distance of transmission, it

could have been reluctance on Spencer’s part. Jillian did not know. She did not care. The

hesitation had not lasted a second, not a half second, but it seemed to Jillian to have played out

over an hour or more.

“Can you see outside, Jill?” he asked finally.

“Yes, Spencer.” Jillian glanced out of the window in the office. The day was bright and sunny,

the sky blue, just as her husband had described it to her a few moments before.

“Fifteen seconds, Commander,” said the guy from Houston.

“Jillian.. .“ said Spencer wistfully. “I am right above you. Right over you now.”

Jillian knew it was foolish, but she couldn’t stop herself. Without thinking about it she pulled

the phone cord as far as it would go to the farthest

extension of the wire. Then she threw open the window and looked into the sky.

“You looking up?” Spencer asked.

“Ten seconds, Commander...”

“Jillian, smile for me, huh? Okay?”

Jillian gazed into the sky, a smile on her face, but with tears in the corner of her eyes. “I

already am.”

“Five seconds, Commander Armacost.” You could almost see the guy with his eyes glued to

the digital clock on his console, counting off the seconds.

“Jillian, I—” That was all he managed to say before his voice was lost in a sea of static.

“Spencer?” Jillian sounded as if she was demanding that her husband not leave her.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Armacost,” said the voice of NASA. “We lost the link. But he’s talking to

Mission Control right now. Everything is fine. We’ll take good care of him.” That was NASA all

over, don’t worry, your kindly old uncle is here, always on the job, taking care of the boys up

there in space.

“Thank you,” Jillian whispered. “I know you will.”

Jillian could never quite reconcile herself to the term space travel. It wasn’t travel as human

beings understood the word; it wasn’t as if Spencer was just another husband away on an

extended business trip. There was something about his going into space that made his absence

seem more extreme, bizarre—almost unnatural. And attendant on these peculiar circumstances,

the anxiety and fear that Jillian felt was that much more acute. And while it was possible to

forget your husband for a moment or two when he’s at a sales conference in Santa Fe or a

convention in San Diego, his actions, his fate was ever with her when Spencer was in space. A

slight vibration of apprehension, slightly flustering like a low-grade fever, was always with her.

When Spencer was away, up there, it was as if he had died but he was going to come back to life,

as if resurrection was guaranteed by NASA and the United States government, as well as by God

and all the saints.

She could not be alone—not for the whole time he was gone. When Spencer was away, Jillian

turned to her younger sister Nan for companionship and a steady guiding hand. Not that Nan was

all that reliable in the conduct of her own life, but she had an instinctive knowledge of what her

big sister needed when Spencer was away. And Jillian was glad to have her near.

Of course, like many siblings close in age they were a study in contrasts. Jillian was

thoughtful and took care of the things that were precious in her life, constantly giving thought to

the results and possible aftermath of even trivial occurrences; Nan, of course, was impulsive and

spontaneous, wandering in and out of jobs, friendships, and relationships with men, without

much thought for the future or the consequences.

And although they were sisters they could not have looked more dissimilar. Both were pretty,

but Jillian had finer, more classically even features which were set off by her soft, short blond

hair and her wide blue eyes. Nan’s face was small, and its component parts were pleasingly out

of of proportion. Her eyes were just a tiny bit too far apart, her mouth slightly off kilter, her hair

was a rather random mop of brown silk. All of this imperfection served to make her a pretty

young woman.

There was a haphazardness to her gamine face that suggested a mischievousness that

contrasted with her sister’s alternating moods of serenity and anxiety.

The two women dressed in completely different

manners and styles as well. Jillian kept things casual and classical, never straying an inch beyond

the boundaries of good taste; Nan looked thrown together.

She appeared for dinner at Jillian’s door that night dressed in bright pants, a ribbed knit shirt,

a pair of black classic Keds on her feet. Had she looked any more current she would have been

dressing in the styles of the week after next.

The two sisters were at work in the Armacost kitchen, back to back, preparing dinner. Even

the tasks the two chose to do pointed up the differences between them. Jillian was bent over a

cutting board, chef’s knife in hand, carefully but skillfully making a julienne of fresh vegetables.

Nan, no less skillfully, worked the cork out of a bottle of red wine. Behind them, mounted under

the glass-fronted kitchen cabinets, a small color television set played, the sound off. The sisters

were hardly aware that it was there.

“Let me get this straight... he called you from space?” said Nan as she eased the cork from the

bottle of pinoe noir. She sounded incredulous. De-spite her sister’s marriage to an astronaut she

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Robert Tine - The Astronaut's Wife

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