important.
Her voice was beginning to break apart.
Let me see what I can do, he said. The voice rung off.
Hello? she said.
Yeah? a third voice said.
Jack? Grace said.
Who’s this? Jack said.
Jack, it’s me, it’s Grace.
Gracie? Are you okay?
I know I’m not supposed to call the base—and I never have, not once, in ten, twelve years—but, Jack, have you seen Jim? He told me he’d—is he—
Why, he’s right here, Grace—hang on.
Jim?
Gracie?
Jim .
Hon, what’s the matter?
Nothing, nothing’s the matter. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have called.
Hey, it’s okay, he said, slow down and tell me what’s goin on.
It’s me, I’m sorry, nothing’s going on, it’s just … you said you’d be home at nine, and I know you were taking up a Starfighter this morning and after … what happened to Kinch … I hate that damn plane.
Honey, honey, it’s okay. Jack needed my help on this profile. Said I’d be home closer to eleven, remember?
I—no?
When I was looking for my watch.
I must have dozed off … goddamn it.
It’s okay.
It’s not.
Honey—
I’ve made myself half mad with worry this morning. What’s wrong with me? I’m so embarrassed.
Gracie, hon, don’t even fret on it. Air force pays my wage, trains me to wear the Blue Suit, but they don’t do a damn thing to train the wife of a Blue Suiter. You’re doing just fine. Look, I’m just about done here. I’ll head back now.
No, no, it’s okay, stay; Jack needs you. I’m going to get out, take Milo for a walk or something. I need to clear my head.
Well, okay, as long as you’re all right?
I am now.
Okay then.
I’ll see you later.
You bet.
Okay.
He rang off. It was nine fifty-five. Grace put Milo in the car and drove to Rosamond.
The hardware store was the only place they could get dog food. Charlie Anderson used to sell it, but Charlie was dead, tuberculosis, and his store, hundred and sixty acre homestead, and the town of Muroc itself, had been bought up by the air force and dismantled to make room for the expanding base, renamed Edwards, after Glen Edwards, who augered in testing a prototype jet-powered heavy bomber called the Flying Wing that had the look and aerodynamics of a banana.
After she’d bought the dog food and hauled it out to the car, she leaned against the door and lit a smoke and the metal against her back felt hotter than the burning cigarette tip flaring orange sending smoke twisting away in a sinewy line that her eyes followed; the thin column turning and rising. Her hand trembled and a brittle ashen hulk broke off and fell to the ground. She stared at the charred lump at her feet. Burned Beyond Recognition . That’s what they called it when a human body was exposed to the intense heat of combusting aviation fuel. Her heart hammered hard inside her. She dropped what was left of the cigarette, pulled Milo from the car and started up Main Street.
Grace, I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.
Reverend Irving was at the lectern. He collected his papers, picked up a small Bible and stepped down from the platform.
How are you feeling today? he said. You look tired.
She sat down on the front pew. Irving joined her.
Grace? he said. Has something happened?
She stared down at the smooth floor.
Hasn’t happened in years, she said.
Can you tell me about it?
You know my husband, Jim, she said, sitting up. He’s a test pilot at the base. He came home once, few years ago, with bright red eyes. You’ve never seen anything like it; I thought his eyeballs had burst or something. He’d been pulling heavy negative g’s. They call it red out ; the blood vessels in the eyes rupture. He looked terrible. Skin was so gray. He just sat in the kitchen, drinking a glass of milk. I asked him what had happened and he said, nothing much, bit of a corner; managed to luck out of it. A corner. Lucked out of it. I couldn’t blame him, or Jack—his engineer—for wanting to beat Scott Crossfield’s Mach
Her voice was beginning to break apart.
Let me see what I can do, he said. The voice rung off.
Hello? she said.
Yeah? a third voice said.
Jack? Grace said.
Who’s this? Jack said.
Jack, it’s me, it’s Grace.
Gracie? Are you okay?
I know I’m not supposed to call the base—and I never have, not once, in ten, twelve years—but, Jack, have you seen Jim? He told me he’d—is he—
Why, he’s right here, Grace—hang on.
Jim?
Gracie?
Jim .
Hon, what’s the matter?
Nothing, nothing’s the matter. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have called.
Hey, it’s okay, he said, slow down and tell me what’s goin on.
It’s me, I’m sorry, nothing’s going on, it’s just … you said you’d be home at nine, and I know you were taking up a Starfighter this morning and after … what happened to Kinch … I hate that damn plane.
Honey, honey, it’s okay. Jack needed my help on this profile. Said I’d be home closer to eleven, remember?
I—no?
When I was looking for my watch.
I must have dozed off … goddamn it.
It’s okay.
It’s not.
Honey—
I’ve made myself half mad with worry this morning. What’s wrong with me? I’m so embarrassed.
Gracie, hon, don’t even fret on it. Air force pays my wage, trains me to wear the Blue Suit, but they don’t do a damn thing to train the wife of a Blue Suiter. You’re doing just fine. Look, I’m just about done here. I’ll head back now.
No, no, it’s okay, stay; Jack needs you. I’m going to get out, take Milo for a walk or something. I need to clear my head.
Well, okay, as long as you’re all right?
I am now.
Okay then.
I’ll see you later.
You bet.
Okay.
He rang off. It was nine fifty-five. Grace put Milo in the car and drove to Rosamond.
The hardware store was the only place they could get dog food. Charlie Anderson used to sell it, but Charlie was dead, tuberculosis, and his store, hundred and sixty acre homestead, and the town of Muroc itself, had been bought up by the air force and dismantled to make room for the expanding base, renamed Edwards, after Glen Edwards, who augered in testing a prototype jet-powered heavy bomber called the Flying Wing that had the look and aerodynamics of a banana.
After she’d bought the dog food and hauled it out to the car, she leaned against the door and lit a smoke and the metal against her back felt hotter than the burning cigarette tip flaring orange sending smoke twisting away in a sinewy line that her eyes followed; the thin column turning and rising. Her hand trembled and a brittle ashen hulk broke off and fell to the ground. She stared at the charred lump at her feet. Burned Beyond Recognition . That’s what they called it when a human body was exposed to the intense heat of combusting aviation fuel. Her heart hammered hard inside her. She dropped what was left of the cigarette, pulled Milo from the car and started up Main Street.
Grace, I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.
Reverend Irving was at the lectern. He collected his papers, picked up a small Bible and stepped down from the platform.
How are you feeling today? he said. You look tired.
She sat down on the front pew. Irving joined her.
Grace? he said. Has something happened?
She stared down at the smooth floor.
Hasn’t happened in years, she said.
Can you tell me about it?
You know my husband, Jim, she said, sitting up. He’s a test pilot at the base. He came home once, few years ago, with bright red eyes. You’ve never seen anything like it; I thought his eyeballs had burst or something. He’d been pulling heavy negative g’s. They call it red out ; the blood vessels in the eyes rupture. He looked terrible. Skin was so gray. He just sat in the kitchen, drinking a glass of milk. I asked him what had happened and he said, nothing much, bit of a corner; managed to luck out of it. A corner. Lucked out of it. I couldn’t blame him, or Jack—his engineer—for wanting to beat Scott Crossfield’s Mach
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