Through a Window, Darkly
It was pinochle night, the usual crowd assembling this time in the library conference room, with the addition of Lt. Cat Morrison, who, unfortunately, would soon need to leave to go on duty. Joanni had not yet arrived. “The star always takes the stage last, you know,” Cat said, not looking up from her card shuffling and dealing. Knowing looks passed between and among the players, and the gossip commenced, with McKaye’s second-in-command, Matt Thornby, running ineffective interference for his not-so-secret object of desire.
The conference room door buzzed open revealing the individual in question.
“You’re late, my dear; did you bring anything good?” Lt. McKaye asked her.
“Have I ever disappointed you, Ruthie?” Joanni replied, holding up a covered plate. Lt. McKaye got up from her seat to get more drinks; Joanni took the seat Cat relinquished as the communications officer headed off to the bridge. That meant Joanni was partnered with Ensign Thornby. She was not well pleased with this arrangement; she would have to be careful to not be too nice or too forthcoming. She did not wish to encourage that which she would then subsequently need to squelch. A sigh escaped her at the feeling of a different kind of claustrophobia, the claustrophobia of being stuck under a bright, hot spotlight; a sigh at the oppression of being the mission’s shining light.
Joanni didn’t start out with this mindset, quite the opposite. But it was an ongoing battle to prevent the adulation of the Oreanians from seeping into and muddling her mind. When she first came on board the Eridanus, she was happy to enter rooms unnoticed and remain unseen so she could study the lay of the land, live in that internal world of hers. The captain’s romantic interest and the Oreanians' praise raised her visibility so much that such an unobserved life was no longer possible. And over time, it hardened her. Her newfound prominence at first annoyed her, then amused her, then eventually came to be seen by her as the most natural of things. She used to revel in the turning of the universe, being swept along with worlds that were unknown and mysterious, and beautiful. Now she was succumbing to the belief that it all revolved around her. Mrs. Gillis was no longer there to cut her down to size.
The players studied their hands. The bid went round the table. “You guys look like the cat who ate the canary. What were you talking about before I came in?” Joanni asked as the meld was laid down.
There was silence until Ruthie took it upon herself to feign the group’s innocence. “Raindrops on kittens and bright silver mittens,” she told her.
The change in Joanni as the power of the Oreanian mission slowly but surely wound its threads around her—bulking her up—did not escape notice by her captain. He was, though it was not in his makeup to characterize it as such, the chief victim of this metamorphosis, or . . . theft, depending on how one looked at it. Either way, Chipman didn’t like it. He felt that he provided Joanni guidance that she needed and support that she appreciated. She was courageous and intellectually curious, but inexperienced; now it seemed as if she had gained confidence overnight and was seeking her guidance elsewhere. The rise in her status had tempered her softness and diminished, if not shut down, her inquisitiveness and sense of wonder, all things that had made him fall in love with her. Her battles with Ambassador Gillis and his deputies turned her mind to strategies and tactics. Her friendship with Brennan morphed into a mean girls duo of sarcasm and bossiness. At times, Joanni pictured herself a smooth operator handling everyone’s jealousy adroitly; at other times she felt she had taken on too much; felt that it was all too much. She battled with an undercurrent of anxiety that her man—her man for all the tides of time—was detaching from her, ebbing away and returning to his first love, one that was neither fickle nor flighty, and, she concluded bitterly, one who neither questioned him nor competed with him.
Each of them tried to stop the breakdown. Whenever they got together, it would start off well but eventually deteriorate. Joanni would not be able to stop complaining about her treatment at the hands of her diplomatic superiors or reliving the latest Oreanian hyperbole until Tom Chipman would snap, “Why don’t you stop thinking about Gillis and all this celestial prophecy garbage for one second. It’s beginning to go to your head.” (He might as well just have said, ‘Pay attention to me.’)
“I’ll just turn off the spigot, then, uh?” Joanni pantomimed turning off a faucet, thereby stopping any cascade of incoming information, complete with an obnoxious snort. Very arrogant and never less appealing. Chipman turned and headed toward the door.
“Where are you going?” (She might as well just have said ‘I didn’t give you permission to leave.’)
“Out of the range of fire.”
How did it devolve into this? Had it always been inevitable? She often thought back to the weeks following the gala when they had basked in the simple presence of each other’s company. As a gift to her, and with the help of Eric Matulis, Chipman had secretly rigged up a private office, complete with window, in a storage section at one end of the deck that housed the ship’s officer quarters. A desk was put up against the one window in the storage bay, additional air circulation and electrical wiring for lighting installed thanks to the Eridanus’ head engineer, and module walls positioned to give Joanni her very own private "corner office with a view” where she could sit and work or look at the stars to her heart’s content. Both men were so busy, it was a wonder they had the time to do such a thing. It meant Tom and Joanni weren’t together as much, as she was busy, too, but the captain’s sometimes unexplained absence didn't bother her because she was in that delightful phase where they were connected in thought and spirit even though not in each other’s physical presence.
On some pretense, Chipman had her accompany him to the storage area to surprise her with his gift. At first she couldn’t comprehend the largeness or thoughtfulness of such a gesture, but when she did, she was speechless and almost in tears. She turned to him.
“I got you a window,” he explained with an uncharacteristic combination of pride and sheepishness. He shrugged, “That’s what you’re always saying you want, right?”
She ran up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You are the best man in the universe! The best!” She gave him a big kiss, then several more.
Chipman felt, all in all, he had pulled off a great success. “Do I get a blow job out of this?” he asked her.
“Oooh, you.” She tried to poke him under his arm which he hated. He caught her wrist and held it to stop her. She put her face up close to his. “All the blow jobs you desire.”
“From anybody or just you?”
“Stop it, just stop . . .” She tried to poke him again, but she was too pleased with him at the moment to do much more.
“There’s some good-looking guys here as well, you know.”
“For me or for you?”
“For you, of course.”
“I know, but you have spoiled me for all other men.”
“You don’t think you’ve spoiled me for all other women?”
“I’m not sure. I think you want all the women. Men always want all of them.”
“Hmmm. Well, the pretty ones.”
She made a fist and lightly placed it on his cheek, a gesture indicating more desire than displeasure. At that moment, they were happier than anyone.
She eventually turned back to her desk to look out the window—her window, configured just for her—her fingertips lightly resting on its surface, and looked out at the stars. Neither one of them realized these were their halcyon days, the high water mark of their relationship, when the glass was clear and transparent before it became etched with wear.
Image: High water mark. Source: British Library digitized image from Pre-Adamite Man; or the Story of Our Old Planet. Mrs. George John C. Duncan. London, Edinburgh, 1866.