Atmosphere: A Love Story By Taylor Jenkins Reid - 12

It was late August and Joan was standing by herself in Steve and Helene’s backyard, watching Steve turn off the smoker while his daughters ran around the yard trying to catch fireflies. On the table next to her were the very few leftovers from the spread of brisket, macaroni salad, coleslaw, baked beans, and biscuits. People had not yet cut into the buttermilk pies or the Texas sheet cake. Joan was trying to remember the last time she’d eaten dinner alone. It had been far too long.

In their training, they had been split into two teams. The Red Team, led by a military pilot ASCAN named Duke Patterson, consisted of Donna, Harrison, Vanessa, Marty, and some of the pilots Joan still did not know well yet.

Joan’s team, the Blue Team, was captained by Hank and included her, Griff, Lydia, Ted, and their own group of pilots, including Jimmy Hayman, whom Joan disliked more every time she spoke to him.

The Red Team would have instruction in the classroom in the morning and then head out in the T-38s in the afternoon. Joan’s team would do the opposite.

Their days were packed. Between the lessons on engineering, oceanography, geography, anatomy, and other topics, Joan was absorbing so much information alongside her fellow ASCANs that it only made sense to study after hours with them, too. She and Griff had spent so many nights in his apartment, going over country borders and emergency medical procedures, that they now knew each other’s takeout orders without having to ask. Every other evening there was some get-together, either at the Outpost or Frenchie’s. Joan couldn’t remember, even in college, being out so late, so often, with so many people.

The only thing she was actually enjoying right now at this party was the nearly empty beer bottle in her hand. She’d never tried a beer until Donna and Griff insisted. She’d been surprised to find that Coors Light was delicious.

Joan took a last sip and looked around. Most people seemed occupied. Maybe she could sneak out without anyone noticing.

But a moment later, Vanessa strolled up to her and handed her another beer. “You look like you’re counting down the minutes until you can leave.”

Joan laughed. “I think I’ve had my share of socializing for now,” she said as they stood on the edge of Steve and Helene’s pool. “Present company excluded from my complaining, of course.”

Hank walked into the backyard, hours late to the BBQ. Everyone cheered, even Joan. They’d gone up in the T-38s four more times together since that first ride. Each time, Hank had let her take more control of the jet than the time before.

She found Donna’s mooning over him to be a bit much. But she had to admit, he was one of the good ones. She thought of him the way she thought young children must think of Willy Wonka. Here was the door to all the magic and danger.

“I mean, Griff and Donna are great. Hank, I like. You’re great. But some of these other guys, I could do without. No offense, but I could be at home right now with a good book.”

Vanessa laughed and sipped her beer. “You’re awfully grumpy.”

“I am not grumpy. ”

“It’s a good thing.”

“How is it a good thing? To be grumpy?”

“It gives you some much-needed dirt on your clothes.”

“What?”

“Otherwise, you’re a little too perfect,” Vanessa said. “Smart, well-rounded, always five minutes early, nice to everyone. A little edge to you is good.”

Joan turned to look at her. “I have plenty of edge to me.”

“I know. You’re grumpy and a little antisocial,” Vanessa said, sipping her beer again. “So am I. It’s nice to see.”

Joan frowned.

“It’s a compliment. You’re like Marlon Brando,” Vanessa said as she leaned in and shoved her shoulder into Joan’s.

Joan tried to maintain her frown, but it wasn’t working. “How am I anything like Marlon Brando?”

Vanessa put her beer down on a folding table covered with a vinyl tablecloth.

“Okay, so . . .” Vanessa said. “Before Streetcar, Marlon Brando was gorgeous, sure. But almost too beautiful. Maybe a little . . . boringly beautiful? But then, during the run of the play, he’s goofing around, boxing some guys backstage. He gets decked in the face, right across the nose. Pow!”

Vanessa mimicked somebody getting knocked out. Joan was trying to stay irritated, but it was a helium balloon and she was losing her grip on the string.

“Breaks his nose. He’s rushed to the hospital. The doctor does a shit job resetting it. It’s totally crooked. And the producer, I don’t remember her name, but it’s this woman and she goes to the hospital and she says, ‘Oh, no, Marlon, they’ve ruined your face.’ But he doesn’t care. He never gets it fixed. And he goes on to be a major star, bigger than anyone ever thought he’d be. And years later, she takes it back. It didn’t ruin his face, it enhanced his face. Somehow, with that crooked nose, he was more handsome. He had been too perfect before. Now he had a flaw. Now he was somebody you could touch. He looked like the most handsome real man that ever lived, instead of some beautiful doll.”

“It made him interesting,” Joan said.

Vanessa snapped her fingers. “Exactly—it made him interesting.”

“So my not liking this party is my crooked nose?”

“When somebody’s too smooth, there’s nothing to grab on to. Now that you’ve got a little edge to you, I can hang on.”

“You didn’t like me before?”

“I have always liked you, Jo,” Vanessa said, picking up her beer. “You know that. I just like you more now.”

Joan nodded. “Well, thank you for comparing me to Brando, I guess. No one’s ever done that before.”

“You also look a little like Ingrid Bergman—not that you asked,” she said.

Joan tried to picture Ingrid Bergman.

“From Casablanca, ” Vanessa said.

“Oh,” Joan said. And then: “Oh, wow, that’s . . . that’s very nice. I’m not sure I see it, but thank you.” Joan just kept talking now, couldn’t stop herself. “First time I really met you, I thought you seemed like Cool Hand Luke. Not that you’re a man. Just . . . the attitude, maybe. Sorry, this is coming out wrong.”

Vanessa put her hand on Joan’s arm as if to stop her. “Joan,” she said.

Joan looked at her.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Joan laughed. “It is?”

“Yes, it is. Thank you.”

“Oh, well, you’re welcome.”

“I love Paul Newman. Who wouldn’t want to be Paul Newman?”

Joan shrugged and laughed. “I mean, yeah, when you put it that way. Who wouldn’t?”

Why had she been annoyed? She couldn’t remember.

Duke’s wife, Kris, opened the sliding glass doors to the living room and Steve’s dog, a blue heeler named Apollo, came running out and pawing at Vanessa’s leg.

“Oops!” Kris said. “Sorry!”

“No,” Vanessa said, crouching down to pet him. “You’re all right, aren’t ya, buddy?”

Apollo rolled onto his back, and Vanessa scratched his belly.

“Apollo, you make me wish I could have a dog,” she said.

“Why can’t you?” Joan asked.

Vanessa looked up at her. “One day soon, I’m hoping to strap myself to a rocket and bounce out of the atmosphere. I’m not going to be able to take care of a dog.”

“Oh,” Joan said. “Okay. But couldn’t you just get a dog sitter when you go on a mission?”

“I’m not going to put a dog through that. I’ll just come over here and pet Apollo,” Vanessa said and then rubbed his back and gave him a good pat.

“Vanessa!” Steve called from the side yard. “We need you! Antonio’s Dodge is stalled.”

Vanessa raised her eyebrows. “Come on, boy,” she said. And then she smiled at Joan. “Bye, Jo.”

Joan laughed as they walked away. She could leave now. But instead, she sat on the rough concrete, pulled her long skirt up to her knees, and put her feet in the pool. It was so warm, it felt like stepping into a bath.

She watched as Lydia floated by her with her eyes closed, hogging the only pool float. Lydia had refused to share with anyone enough times that no one asked anymore.

Griff swam up to Joan. “I have obtained very important, very confidential insider information,” he said as he pushed his hair back off his face. “And if you play your cards right, I will read you in.”

Joan looked at him. She’d long ago noticed he was objectively handsome. But she could see now that he’d probably had to grow into his features. And she wondered if that had made him an ugly duckling. She loved ugly ducklings.

“Lay it on me,” Joan said. Maybe she had a bit of a buzz. She must have.

“Do you know Duke’s real name?”

“I did suspect it wasn’t Duke.”

“It’s Chris, ” Griff said. The pool lights had kicked on a few moments ago, just as the sun was setting. Griff’s smile was lit from below.

“Oh, wow,” Joan said.

“Yeah, so they are Chris and Kris,” Griff said, pulling closer to the pool’s edge, hovering close to her.

“So he let her be Kris,” Joan said. “And he took on a nickname. That is . . . that is very touching.” She looked up at Duke and Kris, standing by the sliding glass doors with Steve’s wife, Helene.

It was obvious how well Duke and Kris fit together. Duke was quiet and strong. Kris was small and spirited, with big hair. Duke told the stories and Kris hit the punch lines.

“No, she knew what she was doing,” Duke was saying, with a smile.

“Oh, I absolutely did!” Kris added.

Helene laughed.

Joan was always curious what it was like on the inside of a marriage. What happened when it was just the two of them at home, Duke and Kris? Did she have to ask him for permission to buy new clothes? Did he sometimes tell her he didn’t like what she made for dinner? Joan tried to ward off the sadness that always came when she pictured a marriage—any marriage.

Her parents’ marriage seemed fine to her. Good, even. They still loved each other. Her mother, basically a vegetarian, made her father’s favorite meatloaf most weekends with a joy that Joan had scrutinized for years but found completely sincere. Still, when she thought about it, a gloom dared to take over. You could develop your personality your entire life—pursue the things you wanted to learn, discover the most interesting parts of yourself, hold yourself to a certain standard—and then you marry a man and suddenly his personality, his wants, his standards subsume your own?

Joan knew that society was changing and some men were changing with it. Some of them now understood that a woman’s career, her life, her passions were just as important as their own. But still, all Joan could think was that it was now just two people cutting off parts of themselves to make themselves fit together. A world of vegetarians cooking meatloaf.

“Goodwin, do you read me?” Griff said.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, I’m going to head out in a minute. Do you want a ride?”

Joan had come with Donna, but any second now Donna was going to ditch her for Hank.

“Sure,” she said, standing up.

Griff dried off and they said their goodbyes, including to Antonio and his wife, Jeanie.

When they got to the driveway, Vanessa had her head underneath the car’s engine, next to Steve. Ted and Harrison were watching. Apollo was now at Steve’s feet.

“How’s it going on the Dodge?” Griff said.

The path to get by the car was narrow, and there was a hose on the ground. Joan saw where to step, but Griff put his hand on the small of her back to guide her. When Joan turned to look at him, he smiled sweetly at her.

She had been here before—not often, but enough to recognize it for what it was. The glances that lasted just a bit too long, the softer tone of voice directed only at her. It almost never ended easily. There was always a thrash or two, when she tried to kill it.

Joan moved forward quickly, away from his touch.

“Looks like Steve’s got it,” Harrison said. “I certainly couldn’t figure it out.”

“Actually, Vanessa spotted it,” Steve said. “It was the vacuum pull-off on the choke.”

Vanessa stood up slowly and wiped her hands on a rag. “A team effort.”

Steve laughed, and then Vanessa saw Joan there, with Griff. “Off to read your book?”

“Caught red-handed.”

“Well, good night, Brando.”

Joan shook her head, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Good night, Newman.”

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