Part 24 (2/2)

Two days later, an oxygen tank exploded on the s.p.a.cecraft. The lunar landing was aborted, but that was the least of NASA's concerns. With the damage caused by the explosion, Mission Control was unsure if Apollo 13 would make it home. Jane Conrad arrived at Lovells' Levels on the back of Pete's new red Honda motorcycle and was there with Marilyn when she heard the news that Jim was stranded a quarter of a million miles from Earth in a crippled s.p.a.cecraft. The three crewmembers were running out of usable oxygen and had to squeeze into the two-man lunar lander, which had now become a lifeboat.

Marilyn's house was filled with people for days. Moon mementos of Apollo 8, which hung on the family room walls, created an ominous stage set. Father Raish was expected to come over to offer communion to Marilyn and her friends, including Jane and Jo Schirra.

Marilyn's twelve-year-old, Susan, became hysterical when she saw the priest at the door. Marilyn found her lying facedown upstairs in her bedroom. She told her daughter that just because the priest was there, they weren't preparing for the end. Susan didn't seem persuaded, so Marilyn took her downstairs and tiptoed out the back door. She led her down their sloping backyard to the ca.n.a.l on Taylor Lake, where they sat in the shade of a favorite tree.

”Now, tell me exactly what you're worried about,” said Marilyn.

”What do you mean?” Susan asked, sniffling. ”I'm worried Dad's not going to come home.”

”That?” She smiled at Susan. ”That's what's bothering you?” Marilyn shook her head. ”Don't you know your father's too mean to die?”

Susan looked astonished. ”Dad's not mean.”

”No, of course Dad's not. But Dad's stubborn, right? And he's the best astronaut I know.”

Susan nodded.

”Now, do you really think the best astronaut either one of us knows is going to forget something as simple as how to turn his s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p around and fly it home?”

She was right. Jim and his crewmates made it home. Two weeks later, when Jim flew out for routine NASA business, Marilyn, who had held it together through the entire s.p.a.ce debacle, completely fell apart. She just knew that she would never see him again. Jim came home in one piece, of course, but now whenever he headed off in his car to do some mundane errand, Marilyn was gripped by fear that she'd never see him again. Finally, she decided she had to see a psychiatrist, no matter the taboo. Her fears were unbearable.

Apollo 14 took off on January 31, 1971, commanded by Alan Shepard. Louise Shepard remained as composed as ever. The day before, Alan had told her not to expect his 5 p.m. call. ”I'm going to be leaving town,” he said. Louise, the wives' own ”Jackie O,” had been telling the papers, ”I'm constantly aware of the Moon these days. It takes on a whole new look when you know your husband is going up there for a visit.”

But everyone wondered what was going on in her new white-columned mansion in River Oaks, referred to as a ”sw.a.n.kienda” in Maxine Mesinger's Big City Beat gossip column about Houston's elite in the Chronicle.

Alan had made some shrewd business maneuvers, including becoming the co-owner of a local bank. He was still keeping up his reputation as a skirt chaser; like the wives, the Shepards' rich new Houston friends wondered if he and Louise had some sort of ”arrangement.”

Alan finally had surgery for his Meniere's syndrome, defying Louise's Christian Science beliefs. Just like that, he recovered his balance, and after almost a decade on the bench running the Astronaut Office, he was eligible to fly again.

”It's been a long way, but we're here,” forty-seven-year-old Alan, the oldest American astronaut, said as he took his first step on the Moon. Surveying the Fra Mauro Highlands landing site, he cried at the view of Earth. ”Before I went to the Moon, I was a rotten s...o...b..,” he would say afterward. ”Now I'm just an s...o...b..”

He'd stowed away the head of a Wilson six-iron on his craft and attached it to a lunar sample-scoop shovel. Holding the makes.h.i.+ft golf club in his thick s.p.a.cesuit gloves, he swung before the live television camera. The ball didn't go far, but Alan was no quitter. He whacked a second one, which soared, as he put it, for ”miles and miles and miles.”

”Astronaut Does ESP Experiment on Moon Flight” read the headline after Apollo 14 landed. A reporter had caught wind that on the way back from the Moon, Alan's rookie crewmate, Ed Mitch.e.l.l, had tried to telepathically transmit his thoughts to his friends back on Earth. Ed's tomfoolery enraged Alan and NASA, not to mention Ed's wife, Louise, who'd been waiting in vain for her husband to come down to earth since long before he left it. She knew Ed wasn't doing himself any good with his ESP talk. He'd tell her how he wanted to explore the field of parapsychology. Ed had been getting into hypnosis, also Eastern religions, as had lots of young men, including the Beatles with their very own ”giggling guru,” Maharis.h.i.+ Mahesh Yogi.

Now Ed was telling her that he'd had a ”Savikalpa samadhi” experience on his way home. His ego momentarily dissolved and he grokked the immense fire spirit governing the universe. It was enough to make Louise throw up her hands. Ed later accused her of wanting to be married to a shoe salesman. Louise and Ed divorced shortly thereafter.

Now that it was the seventies, the spirit of the sixties was finally seeping through the cracks of Togethersville. The ladies began smoking their Virginia Slims out in the open, even in front of reporters. The Bormans were long gone, packed up and moved out of town after Frank went to the Moon on Apollo 8.

And since NASA had gotten ”soft,” there was no one left in Togethersville to grab the ”token hippie” in the Astronaut Office, as Pete Conrad called Rusty Schweickart, throw him into the bas.e.m.e.nt, and cut off his long red hair and scruffy beard. In fact, it wasn't that long; it kind of curled cutely around his ears, but it was long compared to a crew cut. His wife, Clare, stumped door-to-door for liberal causes. The neighborhood kids loved her and gathered at her house, where she would entertain by playing her ukulele and singing folk songs. It was her version of Hootenanny.

Clare was a free spirit. She had five kids, including twin boys, Rusty Jr. and Randy (whom she used to get confused before she started dressing Rusty in red), and was taking graduate school courses at the University of HoustonClear Lake on the African independence movements. She and Rusty partic.i.p.ated in a couples' book club in the neighborhood, which discussed the latest consciousness-raising literature, like a book t.i.tled s.e.xual Suicide, but she didn't particularly love Rusty's scruffy look either-his long sideburns were awful-looking, and what's more, he knew how she hated them. She knew that he wasn't growing out his hair for her and it upset her to think that he might be growing it out for somebody else. Clare tried to keep an open mind as Rusty encouraged her to. He was partial to picking up any New Age craze and once told her, ”Jealousy is an outmoded emotion.” In fact, Clare was inclined to give him a taste of his own medicine. But was she really going to find a partner at her usual spots? The Rendezvous, a family restaurant near NASA, or Weingarten's, the Na.s.sau Bay supermarket? As Mother Marge once said, deploring the dearth of available men for her widowed girls, ”There just aren't any good bachelors here or in Houston.”

The signs didn't show a very bright future for Rusty at NASA, ever since his s.p.a.ce sickness on Apollo 9 when Mission Control almost had to cancel his s.p.a.ce walk (because if he threw up into his helmet he could've choked out there and died). Now that his career was basically shot because of his weak stomach, Rusty seemed to be doing everything in his power to expand his horizons.

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