Robert Tine - The Astronaut's Wife

The horrible shrieking seemed to fill her head and she tried to shake her head to throw the sound out of her mind. “Please, Spencer?” she said. “Please…”

The noise continued but suddenly Spencer had stopped. She felt him shoot into her, a hot streaming orgasm that seemed to fill something in the center of her being.

Jillian found her voice and she screamed. “Spencer!…” Jillian awoke—or, at least she thought she was awake. She was in the bed, naked, alone. But gradually she came to realize that the bed was not in the bedroom. All around her, above her, to the side of her, behind her were stars, millions and millions of stars, as if she were trapped inside a dark dome of stars.

Her eyes were open and she tried to raise her head, but she could not. And then, coming from far away, came that sound. The screaming, chattering shriek, but coming closer and closer…

Jillian awoke. She was in the bed, naked and alone. She was sprawled on top of the sheets. Startled by her own nakedness she grabbed at the blankets and pulled them around her as if for protection. Slowly she explored her body. There were bruises on her ribs and shoulders where Spencer had held her tight. She put her hand between her legs and winced in pain when she felt her genitals. They were hot and the pain was raw, as if she had been whipped there.

She sat up on her elbows and looked around the shadowy room. Spencer was not there. The apartment was quiet and seemed to be as still as the night. But she listened in the darkness, intently, her ears picking up a faint sound. It was a very small sound and it was emanating from one of the rooms of the house. The sound was small, soft but very clear. Jillian trembled when she heard it—it was no ordinary sound, it was the sound. That horrible shriek like a cloud of insects.

Jillian swallowed and gathered up all her courage. Pulling the covers around her, Jillian climbed out of the bed and left the bedroom, walking down the long hall toward the sound. It was still soft, but plainly present. She crossed the dining room, approaching the double doors that led into the living room. The sound was a little louder now. Jillian could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Her breathing seemed very loud, as if it could be heard yards away…

She stood in the door of the living room and saw Spencer on the far side of the room. He was sitting in a chair by the tall windows. On the end table next to him was a small AM/FM radio and Spencer was leaning toward it, as if anxious to catch every sound, every note coming from the tiny speaker.

Somehow he sensed her standing there and quickly, but not frantically, he turned off the radio. That soft, distant insect sound stopped abruptly. He turned and looked at his wife. She was leaning against the door frame, the covers clutched at her throat. She stared at her husband, as if trying to focus on him.

“Spencer,” she said, her voice groggy and fatigued. “What are you doing?”

He stood up and walked toward her. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said calmly. “So I came out here. I was just listening to some music on the radio.”

He slipped his arms around her and held her close, feeling her body through the blankets.

“Jill, I… I might have had too much to drink tonight and…” He swept a hand through his hair. “… Well, it had been so long since we made love. If I got out of hand there, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

He kissed her softly. “Forgive me?”

Jillian nodded. “Oh… I feel so awful,” she said. “I think I had too much to drink tonight, too.”

Spencer put his arm around her shoulder and started to lead her back toward the bedroom. “Come on,” he said gently. “let’s get you a couple, of aspirin.”

As they left the living room, Jillian glanced over her shoulder and looked at the radio. It was sitting silently on the table, bathed in the moonlight coming in through the window. Spencer carefully remade the bed and then put Jillian in it, like a parent settling a child for the night. Then he went to the bathroom and got his wife two aspirins and a glass of cool water. He handed them to her and stood over her, making sure that she took her medicine. Jillian put the pills on her tongue, then took a couple of gulps of water.

“There you go,” Spencer said. “Those will help with the hangover in the morning.”

“Thank you,” she said, as if thanking a stranger. He took the glass from her, set it on the bedside table, then climbed into bed with her. He snapped off the bedside light and then cuddled up next to her.

“Good night, Jillian.” He kissed her softly, then closed his eyes, dozing off, his arms around her.

There was no sleep for Jillian. She lay in the dark, her eyes wide open, feeling a vague fear.

Spencer had left for work by the time Jillian awoke. She was pleased to realize that she had no hangover, no effects from the evening before except for a slight soreness between her legs. That, she knew, would go away.

Bright sunlight flooded into the apartment and it raised Jillian’s sprits just enough to get her out of bed, into the shower, dressed, and ready for work.

As she was about to leave for her job, she noticed the radio, still sitting on the table as it had been the night before. Jillian walked over to it, stopped, and looked at it for a moment, then took a deep breath and reached out and turned it on. From the speaker came some tinny-sounding pop music. Just pop music…

“So much for that,” she said aloud in the empty apartment. She turned the radio off and left. The second graders sat at their desks hanging on Jillian’s every word. It was the best time of the day—it was story time. Jillian read beautifully, putting real emotion behind the story. And today’s story was a favorite, a real crowd pleaser because it called for a considerable amount of audience participation.

“…Then she began to guess the little man’s name.” she read, making her voice sound sad and far away. “ ‘Is it Conrad Pepper Mill?’ she said. And the little man said…” Jillian glanced expectantly at her students.

“No!” they shouted in unison.

“ ‘I know, I know!’ ” Jillian read aloud. “ ‘Is it Sir William Doorknob?’ And the little man said…”

“No!” the class yelled again.

“ ‘I have it,’ ” Jillian said, clapping her hands. “ ‘Your name must be Little Ribs of Beef.’ And the little man said…”

“No!” they all shouted.

“ ‘It couldn’t be Rumpelstilskin could it?’ ” Jillian said. “ ‘What did you say?’ cried the little man. ‘I said, it couldn’t be—’ ”

And the whole class shouted. “Rumpelstilskin!”

“And the little man screamed,” Jillian said.

The entire class screamed with glee.

“And he stamped his little foot,” Jillian concluded.

Pandemonium erupted in the classroom as two dozen second graders screamed and stamped their feet. Jillian did not do either. She sat on her little chair, the book closed in her lap, her mind far away, thinking of other things.

School was over by two o’clock and Jillian was faced with returning to her empty apartment. In order to delay the inevitable, she lingered in the teachers’ lounge, working through the few papers that been placed in her cubbyhole.

As she absentmindedly scanned a school calendar, something changed in her mind. The words vanished and all she could see was a street, a street unknown to her. It looked like New York City, but she couldn’t be sure. And she had no idea why the image had sprung, unbidden into her mind.

Jillian had no idea how long she had stood like that, transfixed by this image. She heard someone speaking to her.