Keeper of the Flame

By JoAnn Petrie Carr

This is a fictional inside look in answer to the question, What’s it like being married to an astronaut? I was an Apollo wife in the sixties, which gives me a unique perspective from which to write this book. This is the feminine view of the space race and has never been done before by an insider. Keeper of the Flame is a metaphor for the universal story of every traditional married woman who found herself exposed to the possibilities offered by the changing world of the sixties. It will also appeal to those younger women who struggle to combine career and family.

Jennifer Davis, devoted mother of four and wife of an Apollo astronaut, had dreamed of being a lawyer. Instead, she married and started a family while her twin brother went to law school. Although the women’s movement tells her she can have a career of her own, she supports her husband in his quest for the moon.

Her husband is a good but neglectful man who is driven by his need to excel at whatever he does. His time and attention are focused exclusively on the moon to the detriment of his family and his relationship with Jennifer. Jennifer pushes the traditional envelope of her life as far as she’s able without jeopardizing Evan’s chances or neglecting her children. NASA lets Evan know he needs to rein her in. Meanwhile, the astronauts, like rock stars, are allowed every indulgence offered by an adoring public.

In spite of Jennifer’s conventional upbringing, an intense relationship with a television director Mason Sears, who is filming a documentary on her family, threatens to become intimate during her husband’s one-month stay on the moon. An emergency on the lunar surface, endangering the crew, causes her to reexamine her core values. She meets the tough choices that face her head on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796031706

Book preview

KEEPER OF

THE FLAME

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JoAnn Petrie Carr

Copyright © 2019 by JoAnn Petrie Carr.

Cover Art by: John Lopez

Library of Congress Control Number:   2019942608

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-7960-3172-0

                Softcover        978-1-7960-3171-3

                eBook              978-1-7960-3170-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/05/2019

Xlibris

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Contents

Part One    Preflight Training

1967

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Part Two    The Flight

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

T HE AUTHOR HAS written of experience, which is long ago and far away, but which was once part of the fabric of her life.

T O MY SIX Js—Jennifer, Jeffrey, Jamee, John, Jessica, and Joshua—and their partners Greg, Mengo, and Ray. To those exceptional, adaptable, and steadfast women who were married to an astronaut when it counted and to the astronaut kids who sometimes got lost in the shuffle. And especially to Bill der Bing and Robby Robinson, NASA family liaison gurus, who made escorting our family of seven look easy.

"W HAT DO YOU see when you look up t here?"

What everyone sees, I guess. The man—in the moon. Why? What do you see?

A map. Places to land a spacecraft.

In the 1960s, NASA’s race to the moon incorporated a series of Earth orbital flights as well as actual moon orbital and landing missions known as the Apollo program. Their task, assigned by President Kennedy, was to land a man on the moon before the end of the decade. The program spanned nearly ten years at a cost of over $20 million. While Apollo One took the lives of three astronauts, six of the missions achieved the lunar goal beginning with the first landing on the moon in 1969. Twelve men walked on the moon. While all of the astronauts have received much acclaim, there is little known about their wives, the women of Apollo, who watched as their husbands hurtled through space, gazed at the moon differently than other women, and prayed that their man would return home after a safe landing and that their normal life would reappear.

The sixties also embraced the civil rights movement, women’s struggle for equal rights, and the Vietnam War. It was a time for challenges and changes for the entire country. The space effort was a shining light in an otherwise dark and chaotic time, something the rest of the world witnessed, cheered on, and were emotionally invested in.

Women of the time were coming out of an era when June Cleaver was the measure of the perfect housewife. For those too young to know, June Cleaver was the TV example of the housewife who stayed home and wore dresses with an apron and faux pearls to do her housework. Her arena was primarily the kitchen. This story is about one such woman who was caught in a time warp with one foot firmly in the traditional Cleaver camp and the other in a changing future that was filled with new possibilities not only in outer space but also at home.

Part One

Preflight Training

1967

Chapter One

I T WAS THE proverbial screwing without the kiss, she thought. For Jennifer Davis, it wasn’t that the honeymoon with NASA was over. It had never started. As far as she could tell, NASA wanted her to be seen and not heard, and seldom seen at that.

Why did they say Houston was where the astronauts trained for lunar flights? In the three months since Evan had reported for duty at the Manned Space Center in Texas, most of the trainings had gone on elsewhere. They were lucky if he was home three nights a week. Not even the weekends were sacred as he had endless reports to read and paperwork to complete. At least, as a marine pilot assigned to a home-based fighter squadron, he’d been home for dinner nearly every night.

Tonight, she’d cooked a special dinner to celebrate his homecoming after four days away. Then he’d called to say he wouldn’t be home until ten. She tried not to complain. After all, she’d wanted this assignment as much as Evan. And there was nothing to be done about the travel schedule; from what she heard, it could only get worse.

Set a place for me too, Carolyn, she called to her oldest daughter. She’d dine on macaroni and cheese with the kids. The beef bourguignon would go in the freezer, to be resurrected some other night.

Carolyn, eleven years old, finished setting the table while Jennifer got a carton of milk out of the refrigerator. Dinnertime! she called in the direction of the family area where Amy and Beth, four-year-old twins, and Christopher, ten, sprawled out on the yellow shag carpeting in front of the television.

The words were barely out of her mouth when Chris yelled, Mom, something’s wrong at the Cape!

She hurried into the family room as a somber Walter Cronkite interrupted the regular programming to report there’d been a fire on the pad. She turned to the other channels—all reporting the fire in Apollo One. She watched in horror as they were told the three astronauts, Gus Grissom, Ed White, and Roger Chaffee, had perished in a fire that raged through the spacecraft as they trained for the first mission in the series of moon landings.

Spaceflight was right up there with the war in Vietnam for the news media and the rest of the world. It gave everyone hope for the future, whereas the war was alarming to a large part of the world. The astronauts were like rock stars—everyone wanted to know about them.

She covered her mouth with one hand and glanced around at her cozy home and at the fire in the hearth as if its warmth could cancel the frightening news she was hearing. She focused on the television screen and instinctively moved closer to her children.

The back door burst open. Megan Gentry, Jennifer’s next-door neighbor, came in, clutching a bottle of brandy. She glanced at the TV and hurried to Jennifer’s side. Jack called from the Cape and told me what happened. Megan was the bride of Evan’s longtime marine buddy, Jack Gentry, another new astronaut.

Jennifer touched Megan on the shoulder, picked up a throw pillow from the couch that faced the TV, and hugged it to her chest.

Chris raised his head. Their eyes locked, and his face contorted. He jumped up and ran from the room. She followed him upstairs where he lay on his bed with a pillow pulled over his head.

Chris, I know it’s terrible. And it’s good to cry.

I’m not crying, he said, his angry voice muffled by the pillow.

Do you think they burned up?

We don’t know yet, honey.

Why did it happen? It’s not fair! he yelled. It’s not fair! His voice cracked, and he sobbed.

Jennifer tried to put her arms around him, but he pushed her away. Leave me alone! he said.

Okay, but Mrs. Gentry and I are going to be downstairs. Your dinner’s on the table.

I’m not hungry. He stopped sobbing but continued to clutch the pillow over his face.

When she returned to the family room, an ashen Megan sat on the couch, holding the bottle of Courvoisier and staring at the television, her usual bravado nowhere in evidence. She was grateful Megan was here. The day Jennifer had moved in while Evan was on travel, Megan announced herself at the back door with a bag of hamburgers for dinner and a thermos of daiquiris for the grown-ups—a petite rescuer with a halo of cigarette smoke circling her auburn hair.

What do the wives do here? Jennifer had asked her.

Do? I do whatever I damn well please.

Jennifer had been enthralled by Megan’s go-to-hell ways. Her own efforts at being the perfect military wife sometimes grew tiresome.

The loss of one of her husband’s colleagues was a new experience for Megan. With a sigh, Jennifer wondered how many losses it took for a pilot’s wife to get used to it. She still hadn’t.

The girls sat at the table at the kitchen end of the large family room, picking at their dinner. Carolyn cast a frightened look at Jennifer and asked in a small voice, Are they dead, Mom?

Yes, they are. Jennifer gave Carolyn a hug.

When is Daddy coming home? Amy asked.

Daddy will be home tonight. You’ll be asleep. Amy rested her head on one hand and stirred her food together into a colorful glob. Can we stay up ’til he gets home?

Beth’s blue eyes were wide with fear. Is he fine?

Yes. He’s good as gold.

Is his plane gonna burn up? Beth asked.

Jennifer caught her breath. No! Now don’t even think such a thing. He’s a very good pilot.

But, Mom, Carolyn cried, they weren’t even flying, and they died.

Megan turned and looked at Jennifer. They all waited for an answer. She had none. The only sound in the room was the voice of Walter Cronkite. Taking the brandy from Megan, she filled two snifters from the wet bar and sat down beside her friend. With shaking hands, she tapped a cigarette out of Megan’s pack and lit up.

I didn’t know you smoked.

I do now. She inhaled and managed not to cough. Chris is devastated, she murmured, the smoke curling out around her words. He worshipped Ed White. When we first moved here, Chris used to hang around the Whites’ house, hoping to see him. He finally met him at the school Christmas program. He was so excited because Ed spent time telling him about space walking.

Megan sank back into the cushions, holding her brandy in both hands. Jack was in communication with them when the fire broke out. They couldn’t get the fucking hatch open. They were trapped.

Megan, language, she whispered, nodding at the kids. Jennifer’s voice wavered. You know accidents can happen in the air, but you don’t expect them to happen on the ground. Not like this. She got up to bring the brandy bottle over to the coffee table. And not to these guys. They seem invincible.

The TV screen flickered with images of the three fallen heroes in their space suits waving to the cameras as they prepared to enter the elevator that would carry them up the gantry to their death in the Apollo command module: close-ups of a grizzled and growly Gus Grissom telling a reporter that as far as he was concerned, he would consider their first lunar mission a success if they all came back; shots of a smiling Ed White saying that in the quest to the moon, We could expect to have some fatalities, and hopefully, he would not be one of them; and scenes of a handsome Roger Chaffee playing with his beautiful young family.

Later that night, Evan arrived, still wearing his flight suit. In the family room, Beth and Amy slept on the floor, their heads together in a tangle of blonde curls. Chris slouched, cross-legged, in Evan’s reclining chair, sound asleep. Megan and Jennifer sat on the couch with Carolyn on the floor in front of them using Jennifer’s legs as a backrest, her long blonde hair falling across Jennifer’s lap. The television continued to replay coverage of the event.

Jennifer jumped up to greet him. Silently, they hugged. She could feel the warmth of his body filtering through the cold January air that permeated his flight suit. She snuggled closer as if seeking all the comfort she could. Carolyn joined their hug.

What are they still doing up at this hour? He shot a mildly accusatory glance at Jennifer. It’s way past their bedtime.

They wanted to stay up until you got home.

Daddy! The three astronauts burned up. Beth delivered her news and then yawned.

Chris, alert, regarded his dad. Did they really burn up, Dad?

They likely died from lack of oxygen. Not something you need to worry about. It’ll never happen again. He pointed the twins toward the door. Now go get ready for bed.

Chris started after the twins and then turned to Jennifer. Can I get a card for Mrs. White tomorrow?

That would be really nice, said Jennifer. She blinked back the hot tears she felt welling up in her eyes.

Chapter Two

T HE NEXT DAY, Evan and Jennifer paid a call on the widows. Military protocol was a familiar and comforting fighter pilot ritual. It provided everyone with a script when it was difficult to know the right thing to do.

The community surrounding the space center, called Clear Lake, after the lake on the east side of the center, was made up of a diverse group of people—NASA employees, aerospace contractors, members of the petrochemical industry, and other businesses. They shared a common bond: They were at the center of the most exciting adventure they had ever experienced. They all claimed it as their own.

Homes and businesses displayed flags somberly hanging at half-mast. The hotel and restaurant marquees along NASA Road One, usually filled with kudos and huzzahs for the returning flight crews, now offered bleak messages of condolence.

On the short drive home from their last stop, the home of neighbor Pat White, Jennifer pulled a tissue out of her purse and blew her nose. It breaks my heart. The day she invited me over for coffee, every other word was ‘Ed.’ I don’t know how she’s ever going to live without him. She blotted the tears from her cheeks.

Jen, you know that’s a risk we all live with. Death is part of the game.

I don’t want to hear that. I always thought you’d be safe because you’re such a careful pilot. No unnecessary risks. But this—it didn’t matter how good they were.

Evan pulled the car into the driveway and looked at Jennifer. It doesn’t help to cry about it.

How can you be so detached?

It’s what I’m paid to be.

I wish you’d show some emotion once in a while. Jennifer realized she was using anger to mask her fear. What are we doing here, anyway? Being a fighter pilot wasn’t risky enough?

That’s crap. You encouraged me to go for this. You wanted it as much as I did.

She knew he was right. She wadded up the tissue into a tight ball. We don’t see you anymore. You don’t spend any time with the kids. Ever since we got here …

There’s nothing I can do about that. If I want a flight, I have to show them I’m ready for it. He got out of the car and started toward the back door. We’ve gone through this before.

She jumped out of the car and ran after him. Don’t walk away from me. I need you.

He stopped and put his arms around her.

All we ever talk about is the kids or spaceflight, she mumbled into his neck.

He patted her on the back and sighed.

Finally, she took a deep breath and pulled back. She was whining. Pilots’ wives who made waves ended up widows. Keep them happy. Keep a good home. And keep quiet. She’d had that drummed into her enough throughout Evan’s military career; she didn’t want to test the maxim. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.

Over the next two days, friends and neighbors did whatever they could to offer help and comfort to the families of the fallen heroes. Neighbors, eager to offer any small comfort, ran errands, brought food, and stood by. Neighborhood churches conducted services in an effort to meet the needs of a mourning community. Neighbors and friends packed the churches where people stood in the vestibules and spilled out the doors onto the lawns. Television camera crews and photographers crowded around to capture the more famous faces in the stream of mourners who came to pay their respects. It was a media event.

On Sunday, NASA announced the burial services would be held on Tuesday, two at Arlington Cemetery in Washington and one at West Point. They were to be closed to the public, and media access was limited. Only NASA officials, astronauts and their families, and close friends were invited. This would be their time to mourn together to share their loss.

Monday morning, Jennifer called Evan at work to see if he knew when they would be leaving so she could make arrangements for a sitter.

Jen, I’m sorry, but they’ve decided the wives in our group can’t go, only the guys. We’re flying down in the T-38s.

You can’t mean it. This is a family service. We need to be together. She sat down at the kitchen table.

They don’t have room on the NASA plane for all the wives, and they won’t pay for commercial air.

She dropped her head into her hand. Megan said Jack called her with the flight number.

They don’t have any kids, the expenses we do. We can’t swing it right now.

But, Evan …

She heard him sigh. I’m sorry, but it’s not possible. You can watch it on television.

She hung up on him. On Tuesday, she watched the ceremonies on television, alone, tears rolling unabashed down her cheeks.

Chapter Three

L ATER THAT NIGHT, Jennifer peered out a window next to the rough-hewn double front doors at the shadowed street. Darkness shrouded the neighborhood. The grandfather clock in the entryway chimed twelve. Rags, the family mutt, yawned and cocked his rag-mop head to one side as if trying to understand what she was doing wandering around the house at this hour.

Turning toward the kitchen, she wrapped her arms around herself in a hugging gesture. Come on, she said to Rags. Wine for me and an ice cube for you. Guess I should be glad you love ice. You could be a dedicated wino.

He followed her, his nails clicking on the polished Saltillo tiles paving the floors in the entry as well as the galleries leading in opposite directions on either side of the front doors. After years of living in government housing, this house was pure luxury; one they wouldn’t have been able to afford without the assistance of local builders who were eager to have astronaut families living in their products.

In daylight, a patio and swimming pool could be seen from the front door through the wall of the windows on the far side of the open living room. To the left of the front door and just beyond