God is an Astronaut (37 page)

Two of the EMTs were there to assist Lacroix, and although you could tell that he desperately wanted to reject their offers, in the end he had to concede. He let them lower him down into the wheelchair, and then he held up his bloody hand in a grudging wave to the insatiable congregation in the distance, while Elle walked behind us, filming him, and me and Jed and Bruce—our laborious progress through the heavy gravitational field we had just returned to. I thought I was exhausted, but Arthur, I must have been euphoric. Even in the dusk, everything looked bright and extraordinary and miraculously new. All the faces of all the people rushing around were unfamiliar to me—even the ones I knew that I knew—so I kept searching and searching for Liam, thinking that I was just overlooking him in all the hubbub. But no. He wasn’t there.

Jess

* You were close. I wouldn’t say it smells lonely, per se, but there is something a little desolate to it. I can’t think of any other way to describe it except to compare it to burned toast. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do.

From: Jessica Frobisher

Sent: Saturday, September 13, 2014 12:29 pm

To: Arthur Danielson

Cc:

Bcc:

Subject: Re: touchdowns, returns, and sundry

Arthur,

I’m glad to hear you made it to North Carolina. I’m sorry to hear it’s a steaming hellhole. I don’t think there’s anything to say except that little white lie people always fall back on in these kinds of situations: you’ll get used to it.

I don’t know if I told you that we had a drought while I was gone. Jack deliberately neglected my watering instructions—he’s still mad at me—so I lost half of the greenhouse plants and all the vegetables. I was ripping all the tomato plants out earlier when Liam came by to start emptying out the shed. I stopped and watched him carry out his clamps and washers and load them up in buckets. When he got done, he asked to borrow my trowel. The sound of the words coming out of his mouth startled me. He speaks to me so little these days. It’s like sentences are dollars and cents, and he doesn’t want to pay me a penny more than he absolutely must.

In silence I handed it over. Then he walked back over to the shed and took something silver out of his pocket. I think it was the last and final piece of the
Titan
space shuttle. Under the lilac trees, he gouged out a chunk of dirt and he buried it there. He drizzled the last little remains of earth over the top of it. He rubbed his hands over the tiny pile, smoothing it out, and then he stood up and walked away.

I see you heard the news about Spaceco being kaput. We’re earthbound creatures now, Arthur, stuck on this gorgeous, fucked-up planet, just like everyone else.

And although the days of our space traveling are done, I have the feeling that our days of ignominy are still far from being over. Lacroix’s film (tentatively titled
Dieu est un astronaut
, or
God is an Astronaut
) is due out in twelve to fourteen months. I guess there’s nothing to do except resign ourselves to our upcoming film debut and keep repeating the same white lie I told you: we’ll get used to it. At least Kelly Kahn’s father has dropped the lawsuit. All he wanted, he said, was to make sure “those people” (that’s us) don’t ruin the lives of anyone else. And that mission has been accomplished. Astronaut, omnipotent deity, whatever he is, he works in mysterious ways.

In answer to your question: yes. The first time I sent this e-mail, I accidentally sent it to your umich address and I got a bounce-back reply telling me that your account had been closed. I think . . . maybe it would be better if you didn’t send me any other new contact information, though. You know where to find me. I know where to find you. Maybe it would be better for now if we left it at that, don’t you think?

Jess

From: Jessica Frobisher

Sent: Monday, September 15, 2014 6:47 am

To: Arthur Danielson

Cc:

Bcc:

Subject: one last thing

I just want to clarify that not
everything
in the greenhouse died. All those prima donna roses, the bloodred ones I bought a while back? Of all things, they managed to hang on. One good hail-Mary soaking the day after I got back, and they came back from the dead. There’s some kind of lesson there, Arthur, I’m sure, some kind of metaphor. I have no idea what it is, but there you have it.

And last of all, Arthur, before the line goes quiet: good luck.

All my love.

Jess

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Rayhané Sanders, the best agent a writer could have; my thoughtful and sharp-eyed editor, Rachel Mannheimer; Alexandra Pringle; and rest of the fantastic team at Bloomsbury.

Many thanks to the faculty at George Mason University for their support encouragement over the years: Alan Cheuse, Susan Shreve, Stephen Goodwin, and Courtney Brkic. A huge thank you to my fellow writers at Mason, those of you wonderful people who became my friends as well as my readers: Eugenia Tsutsumi, David Conner, David Rider, Rion Scott, Sara Hov, and Ryan Call.

For my writing-group buddies who gave me their excellent feedback and rooted me on while I sweated through the arduous process of finishing this book—Elizabeth Moes, Betsy MacBride, Tim Rowe, Collin Grabarek, Priyanka Champaneri, and Steve Loiaconi—I can’t thank you guys enough.

Thank you to my colleagues at the National Geographic Society Library & Archives who so kindly took an interest in my progress and toasted my successes at several happy hours along the way.

Most importantly, a loving and grateful thank you to my family: my parents, Barbara and Stephen; my sister, Becca; and my husband, Michael. I love you all more than words can say.

A Note on the Author

Alyson Foster
was born in St. Louis, Missouri, and grew up in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan. She studied creative writing at the University of Michigan and received an M.F.A. from George Mason University, where she was a Completion Fellow. Her short fiction has appeared in publications including
Glimmer Train
,
the
Iowa Review
,
Ascent
, and
the
Kenyon Review
. Foster works for the National Geographic Society and lives in the Washington, DC, area with her husband.

Copyright © 2014 by Alyson Foster

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Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York

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e
ISBN:
978-1-62040-357-0

First U.S. edition published in 2014

This electronic edition published in July 2014

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