"I've thought about being a Rocket Man for a long time," I said,
He didn't hear me. "I try to stay here. Last Saturday when I got home I started trying so damned hard to stay here."
I remembered him in the garden, sweating, and all the traveling and doing and listening, and I knew that he did this to convince himself that the sea and the towns and the land and his family were the only real things and the good things. But I knew where he would be tonight: looking at the jewelry in Orion from our front porch.
"Promise me you won't be like me," he said.
I hesitated awhile. "Okay," I said.
He shook my hand. "Good boy," he said.
The dinner was fine that night. Mom had run about the kitchen with handfuls of cinnamon and dough and pots and pans tinkling, and now a great turkey fumed on the table, with dressing, cranberry sauce, peas, and pumpkin pie.
"In the middle of August?" said Dad, amazed.
"You won't be here for Thanksgiving."
"So I won't."
He sniffed it. He lifted each lid from each tureen and let the flavor steam over his sunburned face. He said "Ah" to each. He looked at the room and his hands. He gazed at the pictures on the wall, the chairs, the table, me, and Mom. He cleared his throat. I saw him make up his mind. "Lilly?"
"Yes?" Mom looked across her table which she had set like a wonderful silver trap, a miraculous gravy pit into which, like a struggling beast of the past caught in a tar pool, her husband might at last be caught and held, gazing out through a jail of wishbones, safe forever. Her eyes sparkled.
"Lilly," said Dad.
Go on, I thought crazily. Say it, quick; say you'll stay home this time, for good, and never go away; say it!
Just then a passing helicopter jarred the room and the windowpane shook with a crystal sound. Dad glanced at the window.
The blue stars of evening were there, and the red planet Mars was rising in the East.
Dad looked at Mars a full minute. Then he put his hand out blindly toward me. "May I have some peas," he said.
"Excuse me," said Mother. "I'm going to get some bread."
She rushed out into the kitchen.
"But there's bread on the table," I said.
Dad didn't look at me as he began his meal.
I couldn't sleep that night. I came downstairs at one in the morning and the moonlight was like ice on all the housetops, and dew glittered in a snow field on our grass. I stood in the doorway in my pajamas, feeling the warm night wind, and then I knew that Dad was sitting in the mechanical porch swing, gliding gently. I could see his profile tilted back, and he was watching the stars wheel over the sky. His eyes were like gray crystal there, the moon in each one.
I went out and sat beside him.
We glided awhile in the swing.
At last I said, "How many ways are there to die in space?"
"A million."
"Name some."
"The meteors hit you. The air goes out of your rocket. Or comets take you along with them. Concussion. Strangulation. Explosion. Centrifugal force. Too much acceleration. Too little. The heat, the cold, the sun, the moon, the stars, the planets, the asteroids, the planetoids, radiation . . ."
"And do they bury you?"
"They never find you."