The Time It Takes to Fall Read online

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2007 by Margaret Lazarus Dean

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Book design by Ellen R. Sasahara

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dean, Margaret Lazarus.

  The time it takes to fall / Margaret Lazarus Dean.

  p. cm.

  1. Space flight—Fiction. 2. Challenger (Spacecraft)—Accidents—Fiction. 3. Space shuttles—Accidents—Fiction. 4. Florida—Fiction. 5. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3604.E1535T56 2007

  813’.6—dc22 2006052213

  ISBN 10: 1-4165-3852-6

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4165-3852-3

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  For

  CJH

  What does it say that an egg recites poems that are utter nonsense in the face of trying things? Of course, we know he was cracked

  by his own faith in balance. When the horses and men returned home from their assembly job, they were too numb for words, they had

  no stories

  to tell their children, they spent the evening in silence.

  —Jennifer Metsker

  When the shuttle lifts off, all of America will be reminded of the crucial role that teachers and education play in the life of our nation. I can’t think of a better lesson for our children and our country.

  —Ronald Reagan, announcing the Teacher in Space Program, 1984

  Prologue

  IT IS ONE OF MY FATHER’S MOST FIRMLY HELD BELIEFS THAT American interest in spaceflight ended all at once and for no good reason in 1972. But surely that can’t be accurate. I’ve always imagined a long fall, a slow waning, a slipping out of love with the idea of men bouncing on the moon, defying gravity, the fire and the rockets. I was born just at the end. As my mother labored in the basement of a hospital in Titusville, the last men ever to walk on the moon, Gene Cernan and Jack Schmitt, climbed back into their lunar module with the last samples of moon rocks, stowed their space suits, and prepared to return to Earth.

  My father first came to the Space Coast in 1965, when caravans of young families were still descending upon central Florida, unpacking their children into new subdivisions smelling of fresh lumber and the swampy traces of marshland recently drained. He was drawn here by the hiring frenzy in those years when Congress gave NASA more money than they asked for, when NASA was meant to win a war made entirely of metaphor. I try to imagine what it was like to live here then; I like to think of a time when all Americans believed so fervently in such an innocent idea, that getting to the moon first would settle something once and for all. I like to imagine people invoking the name Cape Canaveral, its syllables implying a power almost magical. The families huddled around their TVs, eagerly watching my hometown, the marshes and sable palms of central Florida glowing green with their anticipation.

  Congress withdrew funding; work was stopped. The Saturn V rocket my father had already helped to assemble, intended to send Apollo 18 to the moon, was shipped to Houston instead and tipped unceremoniously onto its side to rust in a grass field for bored, sweating tourists to pace around and for children to attempt to climb. Entire departments at NASA were closed, thousands of workers fired. So many people left central Florida in the early seventies that whole subdivisions emptied, drained of families as quickly as they had filled. My father, a technician with only a high school education, miraculously survived the purge. Congress had approved funding for NASA’s next project, the space shuttle, and my father was chosen to work on it.

  I learned to recognize the space shuttle from pictures long before I ever saw the real thing: snub-nosed, covered with heat tiles, black on its belly and white on its back. The point of the shuttle was its reusability; the Apollo vehicles had all been abandoned in space or burnt up in the atmosphere, but the plane-shaped Orbiter was designed to fly, come back, and fly again. My father brought home a plastic model of the Launch Vehicle: the Orbiter mated with a rust-colored External Tank, and a pair of refrigerator-white Solid Rocket Boosters that would help lift the shuttle past the Earth’s atmosphere.

  My earliest memory of the space shuttle is of the very first launch, of the Orbiter Columbia in 1981. It was the first of four test flights, flown by veteran astronauts from the Apollo era, to demonstrate the system’s capabilities. No manned spaceflight had launched since the Apollo mission the month I was born, and now I was eight. I had been waiting all my life to see a spacecraft take off from the Kennedy Space Center. I remember the shock of leaving the house in my nightgown in the middle of the night, riding to the Cape with my father in the dark on clogged roads, the red brake lights ahead of us blinking like a swarm of insects.

  As my father and I got closer to the Cape, cars slowed and pulled over anywhere to get out and spread picnics on the grass. I watched them as we crept by, rows and rows of families eating sandwiches and fried chicken in the middle of the night. At a NASA checkpoint, a man in a little booth leaned out to squint at my father’s badge, then nodded us through. We parked across the Banana River from the launchpad. The Launch Vehicle looked so small that I was disappointed; I’d imagined standing at the base of the stack, gazing up at it the way you look up at a skyscraper from the sidewalk. I’d wanted to feel the shuddering heat of ignition on my face.

  “Don’t be disappointed, Dolores,” my father said. “This is as close as anyone is allowed to get.” He explained that even the technicians piled into vans and drove three miles away just before ignition, in case of an accident. It wasn’t until years later that I understood that an explosion on the launchpad would be like a nuclear blast.

  When the countdown started, people all around us picked up the chant: Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. The sun had just started to come up, bringing back the colors—the green of the grass, the red of our car—that had all been grays in the dark. At six the Solid Rocket Boosters ignited, the rockets my father had worked on, and at liftoff the stack slowly pulled itself up, inch by inch, until the pink cloud forming underneath it illuminated the whole landscape, the light of the rockets spilling out across the water, lighting up each tiny wave, each blade of grass, like day. The rumble I felt and heard later, the pressure in my chest, each of my hairs set to vibrating as if the Earth and everything on it were an instrument the shuttle strummed on its way into orbit.

  “The Solid Rocket Boosters are dropping off now,” my father told me two minutes later. “They’ll fall into the ocean. Workers in boats will pick them up and tow them back to be used again.”

  After five minutes, my father described the External Tank dropping off and burning to nothing in the atmosphere. By then the Orbiter traveled alone, a tiny point at the top of the sky, indistinguishable from any star.

  My father said, “Now Columbia is in orbit around the Earth. The astronauts are looking out the windows and seeing black sky with stars.”

  Somehow, this was the first I truly understood there were men on it, living people now in space, floating weightless, free of the grasp of gravity. They would travel millions of miles before this simple mission was over. I felt a surprising sting of jealousy. Standing out there on the banks of the Banana River in the first light of dawn, I imagined how those astronauts must feel. They had escaped the planet
and now were watching its surface move unhurriedly like the credits of a movie, like something beautiful and harmless, their homes passing every ninety minutes underfoot. That was when I first understood how desperate I was to be there too.

  Columbia glided in for its fourth landing at Edwards Air Force Base in California on the Fourth of July. My father and I watched it together on TV.

  The President spoke, looking out happily over a field of people, all of them frantically waving little American flags. “The fourth landing of the Columbia is the historical equivalent to the driving of the golden spike which completed the first transcontinental railroad,” Reagan read from the podium, then looked off inspiringly into the sky. “It marks our entrance into a new era. The test flights are over. The groundwork has been laid.”

  My mother, walking by with a load of laundry in her arms, muttered, “Then why do you keep cutting NASA’s budget?”

  But I loved the way the President spoke, slowly and warmly, savoring each word. I was full of hope for the future of the space shuttle, though I was in a position to know better. My space notebook was crammed with evidence: all four test flights had been plagued with technical problems, slowdowns, and near-disasters. But listening to Reagan speak, I believed the groundwork had been laid. I believed I would fly in space someday. I would have waved a little American flag if I’d had one.

  While Columbia was wheeled away, Reagan pointed dramatically toward the end of the runway, where Challenger, the recently completed second Orbiter, was affixed to a 747, awaiting transport to Florida. Discovery would be completed in a couple of years, Atlantis after that.

  “Challenger, you are free to take off now,” the President said. It was the wrong language—NASA would say “Challenger, you are go.” But the crowd cheered happily, and it did take off; the 747 gathered its mechanical might and tilted off the ground, and the camera caught a profile of it there in the sky, the silver plane with the smaller black and white Orbiter clinging to it, like a baby animal to its mother.

  I took notes on the President’s speech in my space notebook. I had documented each test flight—the preparations, profiles of the astronauts, pictures of each launch and landing. My father asked to see the notebook, so I handed it to him.

  My mother walked by again, barely glancing at the TV. She had been impervious to spaceflight all my life, since Apollo 18 had been canceled. She was proud to live on the Space Coast and proud that my father worked for NASA. But going to launches required getting up in the middle of the night and waiting four hours in the car; she always said it wasn’t worth the hassle when the launches were likely to be canceled anyway.

  Flipping through my notebook, my father looked proud and amused at first, then serious, then finally he closed it with a frown.

  “I’m going to be an astronaut,” I told him.

  “Did you know that the missions to the moon could have been flown without any astronauts at all?” he said. “Every moment from ignition to reentry was fully automated. All of it could have been controlled from the ground. Some engineers argued against including a human crew at all. If you really want to be a part of NASA when you grow up, you should be an engineer, not an astronaut.”

  “You’re not an engineer,” I pointed out.

  “No, but I could have been,” he said. “And you could too.”

  But even as a child, I understood what he didn’t seem to: that the whole point was to see men in space, men on the moon, men walking on a surface farther from their homes than anyone had ever been, planting their flags and driving their lunar buggies while their pretty young wives waved and cried back on Earth.

  The shuttles launched, one after another. When I was there to see them close up, they were thumb-sized things struggling their way into the sky on a pillow of steam. When I didn’t go to the launch, I looked outside for the bright vertical streak, too bright and fast and upright to be a plane. When the shuttles returned, the double sonic boom startled me, the Orbiter breaking the sound barrier first with its nose, then with its wings. I kept track of the launches: which mission was being assembled or loaded, which was moving out to the launchpad, which one scheduled to launch, delayed, in orbit, reentering the atmosphere, landing, or in processing again.

  When the shuttles launched, everyone celebrated: bars served free drinks, kids were allowed to miss school to watch our fathers’ accomplishments appear on the national news, and for a time, our fathers were happy. But when the launches were delayed, everything moved into a strange sort of limbo. People in from out of town extended their hotel reservations, grew weary and then contemptuous of central Florida, looking around as if they were being held here against their will. A launch that was supposed to have gone up one morning but wouldn’t attempt again until the next made us all feel we were living in a day that didn’t count, a day between parentheses. The fathers looked out windows, confused and distracted, refiguring their plans. We could see them shuffling Orbiters and manifests in their minds, feeling for temperature and wind, thinking through contingencies. Sometimes I caught my father whispering to himself: If not tomorrow, then not till Sunday. If windy on Sunday, then not till Tuesday. The fathers were somehow tinkering with time itself, it seemed to me. Time would not move forward properly until after they had fixed the flawed parts, tested them, reinstalled them, and fired the shuttle off successfully, sending a vertical column of steam into the air to announce: Here. Start the clocks. Begin again.

  Operational

  1.

  MY SISTER DELIA AND I WERE SPLAYED ON THE FLOOR IN FRONT of the afternoon shows when we heard the familiar slam of our own car door. We ran to the window. It was only three o’clock. My father had never come home from work early; often, in the push to prepare one launch after another in a continually quickening schedule, he worked late and didn’t come home during daylight hours at all.

  We watched him walk up the path toward the front door. He was a large man with a round soft belly and a calm face. When he opened the door, he looked surprised to see Delia and me standing there. He nodded and smiled at us.

  “Hi, Dolores,” he said to me, then, “Hi, Delia.”

  My mother emerged from the kitchen, where she had been repotting a plant. She looked as alarmed as we were to see him home in the afternoon. Her brown eyes searched his face.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “What are you doing home?” Her hands were covered with potting soil halfway up her forearms. She clasped them together. My mother was beautiful, with wild black hair and big brown eyes, but worry distorted her face into something like anger.

  “It’s what we expected,” my father said. His voice was flat, as if reporting that we needed milk. He turned his hands up to her, showing her the pink palms.

  “Why are you home, Daddy?” Delia asked. Everyone ignored her; she was four.

  “There’s been a slowdown with the Main Engines. It has nothing to do with the boosters. But until this gets straightened out, there isn’t much for me to do.” My mother watched his face closely as he talked, moving her lips slightly as though she were trying to speak along with him.

  “Why are you home, Daddy?” Delia asked again.

  “Shut up, Delia,” I said.

  “Don’t talk to your sister that way,” my parents said together.

  “They can’t just put me on the next launch,” my father explained to my mother. “The payload people need some time to catch up. It’s just for six weeks or so. Maybe two months. Long enough I’ll have to find something else. But temporary.”

  My father looked down at Delia and smoothed her hair. He and my mother still made the mistake of thinking we didn’t understand their talk, that we knew only what they explained to us. This was still true of Delia, for the most part, but I was eleven.

  My mother sat down and began to cry. She covered her face, forgetting the dirt on her hands. Delia crawled into her lap and patted, patted, patted her shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” my mother cooed to Delia through her tears.
Delia pried my mother’s hands from her face; her forehead was smeared with dirt. Her eyes and nose were red, but she forced a smile.

  “Everything’s okay,” my mother repeated. She sniffed and dried her face with a dish towel, Delia still staring up at her with wide green eyes.

  “I’ve already got some leads,” my father said, his hands in his pockets.

  My mother shook her head and scoffed quietly.

  “What kind of leads?” I asked. They both looked at me.

  “Why don’t you girls go and play in your room?” my father said.

  Delia and I went into the room we shared while he and my mother kept talking, her voice high and quick, his low and quiet. We both tried to listen but couldn’t make out any words. I pulled out the space notebook I’d been keeping since the first launch. The most recent entry read:

  STS 41-D, Discovery.

  Launch attempt June 25, 1984, scrubbed due to computer problems.

  Launch attempt June 26 aborted at T minus 4 seconds because of a Main Engine failure, the latest abort ever. Launch put off for two months so Discovery could be rolled back to the Orbiter Processing Facility. The faulty Main Engine was replaced.

  Launch attempt August 29 delayed because of more computer problems.

  Launch attempt August 30 delayed 6 minutes because a private plane intruded into NASA airspace.

  Launch, finally, at 8:41 am.

  Judith Resnik became the second American woman to fly in space and the first person of Jewish heritage.

  My father took me to this launch.

  Judith Resnik had been my favorite astronaut since I’d first seen her on TV the day the seven women astronauts were chosen, leaning on a split-rail fence in a slightly forced pose, all of them smiling. The astronauts were about my mother’s age, dressed in blouses and slacks, their hair fashionably styled into wings. Judith Resnik, in close-up, had a round baby face, a bright and innocent look. Her voice, her way of speaking, carried just the tiniest thread of friendly sarcasm. She seemed impatient with the silliest of the questions: What do you think it means for a woman to finally travel in space? Are you aware of the dangers involved? How will you feel if you are chosen to be the first American woman astronaut? She answered these questions with a tilt of her head, a sly smile. I’d hoped she would be the first, but Sally Ride had been chosen, the year before.