Atmosphere(62)

Vanessa hung her head and groaned, as if it physically pained her for Joan to leave. “Can’t you stay five minutes longer? Please?”

“No,” Joan said. She could not wipe the smile off her face.


Winter 1982


It was eleven o’clock at night and Vanessa and Joan were at Joan’s apartment, lying on the floor, listening to records. Tonight, Vanessa said, was about Joan learning to fall in love with David Bowie.

“If you love me, you have to love this one thing I love,” Vanessa said. “I can’t be flexible about it at all.”

“I told you I like Hunky Dory.”

“Of course you like Hunky Dory! I couldn’t be with a woman who didn’t like Hunky Dory! But you still have a lot to learn. Starting with the entire Berlin Trilogy.”

Joan laughed. “Okay, but I didn’t act this way when you told me you’d never listened to Ladies of the Canyon.”

“And I listened to every Joni Mitchell album you have, did I not?”

Joan nodded. “Yes, you did. Go ahead and play it.”

“Thank you.”

This was how they spent a lot of their nights together—with an ease and comfort Joan had never known alongside another person.

Whether they were seeing one of Vanessa’s favorite black-and-white movies at an old theater miles outside of town, or the two of them were reading their books together on the couch, or Joan had convinced Vanessa to watch the evening news with her, it was always with a peacefulness that Joan had never experienced.

It was late January, and they had been together for almost six months, but Joan didn’t want to mention it. She didn’t want to feel like she was counting the days, even though she was. And she didn’t want to feel like this could ever end, even though she understood that some love affairs did. Or, rather, that all of them did, eventually. Just the act of falling in love was to agree to a broken heart.

“Steve’s not been around as much,” Vanessa said.

“Because he’s training for his mission?”

“Yeah, but that means I can’t fly with him,” Vanessa said. “I can go up with Duke. But he doesn’t let me fly from the backseat.”

“I mean, none of them do very much,” Joan said.

“But I’m a pilot,” Vanessa said, her voice carrying an edge Joan had not heard before. “And Steve sees that. And he lets me fly the T-38 as a backseater.”

“Taking off and landing, too?”

“Yes! Of course. I know what I’m doing. It’s the only thing I’ve ever truly been great at.”

“I don’t doubt it—I’m just surprised.”

“Steve gets what I can do.”

“Good,” Joan said. “You deserve that.”

“But now . . .”

“But now you’re stuck with Duke.”

“Yes,” Vanessa said. “Do you know how frustrating it is? To have to get permission to do something I’ve been doing on my own my entire adult life? It’s insulting. It would be like if someone said you could only use a telescope under supervision.”

“I’m sorry,” Joan said. “It’s not right. And NASA should have accounted for the gap in military opportunities for women long before now.”

Vanessa squinted at her. “Say more things like that—I’m feeling better.”

“They’re wrong, you’re right,” Joan said.

“Oh, wow, now I’m feeling almost entirely pacified.”

“And you will be the first woman to pilot the shuttle,” Joan said.

“I don’t care about being the first, I just want to do it,” Vanessa said.

“Yes, I know,” Joan said, moving closer to her. “But we need someone undeniable in order for them to realize they can’t deny it.”

“And that’s me?” Vanessa said.

“That’s you.”

Vanessa tried not to smile. “Well, okay! I am here to serve.”

The two of them started laughing, then stopped when the doorbell rang.

“Maybe it’s Griff?” Joan whispered.

As Joan lifted the needle from the record, Vanessa got up and slipped into the bathroom.

“Joan, open up, it’s me.”

Joan had heard that voice so many times through her bedroom door as a child: Barbara always trying to convince her of something. To hide some gift from a boy or lend her money.

“I’m coming,” Joan said. When she opened the door, Frances was in Barbara’s arms, her legs dangling down at Barbara’s waist, her arms down Barbara’s sides, her head on Barbara’s shoulder. Sleeping. Frances was seven and a half now, so big, and so independent, but in moments like this, Joan was relieved at how young she still seemed.

“What’s going on?” Joan said.

Barbara walked right into Joan’s bedroom and put Frances in Joan’s bed.

“Barb, what are you doing?”

“Shhh,” she said, shutting the door behind herself. “I have to go, and I need you to watch her this weekend.”

“Go where? What are you talking about?”

“There’s this guy,” she said.

Joan inhaled. “The new guy? Frank?”