Christian Kiefer - The Infinite Tides

Keith took his eye from the eyepiece and again looked up at the sky. The moon a faint arc and the deep blue awash with tiny points of light that hung motionless. The idea of what he had seen from the end of the robotic arm returned to him now, but only as something not to be believed, as if a dream he had recalled briefly only to have it sift again into vacancy. The stars themselves had held within them a brilliance he had not expected or understood, their colors so bright and vibrant that they seemed all at once to clear away all possible methods of describing them.

He continued to stare up in the direction of whatever constellation Peter had said the nebula was in, the remembrance of the starfield during his mission already gone, the stars before him dimmed by the atmosphere. It was difficult to believe that these were the same stars at all.

He wanted to walk back to the concrete and asphalt of the cul-de-sac and on to Jennifer’s door but instead of excusing himself and leaving the field he said, “You must have been really hung over.”

“So much sick I could not walk,” Peter said, “but wife takes care of me.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

“Yes, yes, she is thinking she’s like mother to me.” There was a sense of irritation in Peter’s voice and he actually waved his hands in the air as if brushing away a fly.

Keith did not say anything in response, only standing and looking from Peter to the stars and back to Peter again.

“Only my wife she does not complain. She is happy here.”

“Well, that’s important.”

“Yes, yes, she is happy and I complain.”

He stared into the sky at the few stars visible above them and then around the ever-increasing darkness of the field. He could make out the slightly luminescent forms of the thistle in the night now, their twisting, ragged feather shapes stretching into invisibility.

“She is a good person, I think,” Peter said. Then he added, “My wife.”

“Seems that way to me.”

“It is true. Her brother and her mother all complain and complain.”

“Why did you come here?” Keith said. He did not know why he asked it and yet he had, and now he stood and listened as Peter exhaled noisily, something between a breath and a sigh.

“Luda,” he said. “She wanted to and so we did.”

“You don’t like it here, though?”

“It’s not same. I mean I know it’s not same, but I was not this stupid in Ukraine.” He paused and then said, “I mean job. This job I have here is stupid. Not good.”

“What did you do in Ukraine?”

“I worked at National Academy of Sciences. At observatory.”

“Oh,” Keith said. He realized that he had not so much as glanced at Peter’s résumé since the day Luda placed it into his hand. “Sounds like a good job.”

“Yes, yes. Good for me. I was not astronomer but I knew them all. Some cosmonauts too. I did university but with Luda and the kids then I did not finish. But I have brain. I do have brain. Here in America, I put stock on shelves. Unload trucks. And then I make a fool of myself for pretty girl. Here I am not so smart as I was.”

“You mean the girl at Starbucks.”

“Audrey. I do not know why. Too young for me, maybe. I don’t even know. It is embarrassing.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

“I have Luda,” Peter said.

“Yes,” Keith said. “Lesson learned, then.”

“I think you are right. But I’m thinking about her still. That has not stopped.”

“She’s pretty young.”

“I know that. She is … American. Beautiful like flower. Like yellow flower. And nice too. A nice girl.”

Keith said nothing, once again staring up into the night sky.

“Ah,” Peter said suddenly. It was an exclamation, a sound of disgust. “This place has made me stupid.” Then he paused as if considering his choice of words. “No, not stupid. Foolish.”

Again, silence.

“I make you uncomfortable with this talk,” Peter said.

Keith looked at him, his own expression of surprise probably concealed by the lack of light. “I guess so,” he said.

“Yes,” Peter said, “and I have already delayed you from plans. I apologize again.”

“No need,” Keith said. He did not know what else to say and so he said nothing. He wondered then if this was what his wife had been talking about, his reluctance to discuss the emotional quality of human life, to share his feelings, but what was he supposed to say?

“You are successful man,” Peter said. “Famous astronaut. This is not something they can take away from you. If you moved to Ukraine right now people would know and you would still be you. Here I move to America and I am nothing all over again. It is like I was again born like new baby and have to start over with job any teenager could get.” He paused and then added: “I don’t think you will understand.”

“It’s a problem,” Keith said. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know this,” Peter said.

Keith said nothing for a moment. Then: “Look, all problems are the same. You figure out what the problem is, then you quantify it, then you work on solving it.”

“It is maybe not same,” Peter said.

“Everything’s the same,” Keith said. “You have a wife and children. You have a house. These are not problems. The problem is that you have a job you don’t like and you got drunk and made a mistake. Figure it out.” He was surprised at his own tumble of words. It was as if he had been waiting for the right words to come and when they did at last he could not stop them or even temper their tone or direction.

Peter’s response was to say nothing for a long time. The stars in their ever-increasing luminosity above them. The moon a sliver at the edge of a dark bowl lined with the squared outlines of silhouetted houses.

“I think you are right, Astronaut Keith Corcoran,” Peter said at last.

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do. You are astronaut.”

“That doesn’t much matter right now.”

“This always matters.”

“I wish that was true,” Keith said.

Another pause and then Peter said, “You mean because your wife is not here?”

Keith was surprised, surprised by the question and surprised that Peter knew anything about his marriage at all. “I don’t know if that has anything to do with it,” he said. It was silent again and he knew that Peter was waiting for him to volunteer more information but what more could he have said? That his wife had had an affair? That his daughter was dead? That he was fucking the woman across the street to fill the time? That he did not know if he would ever get a clean bill of health even though he had not had a real migraine since he was back in Houston? That the biggest thing he could accomplish on any given day was making a phone call and changing a bank account?

“Maybe things are better for you now when she is gone,” Peter said, slowly.

“Not really,” Keith said. He paused and then, for reasons he did not even understand, said, “She took all the furniture.”

“All?”

“All except the bed and the couch.”

“She took television too?” There was real concern in his voice.

“She left the little one but then I dropped it walking down the stairs. That’s the one you saw me set on the curb.”

“Shit,” Peter said.

Keith actually laughed now. “Yeah, that was a shit kind of day,” he said.

“I believe you,” Peter said. Then he added: “Bad, bad, bad, bad.” His breath whistled slightly through his teeth.

“Yeah,” Keith said. “Bad is what it is.”

“But you are free to do whatever,” Peter said.

“Yeah, I’m free to do whatever. But I don’t do anything.”