The flattery and excitement continued well into the evening. Jean Dalton, Anna’s mother, was particularly reserved, watching the party from the sidelines, grinning when Anna brought her the fussy baby boy. She was forty-two years old, grey hair was already weaving through the red, and her back arched slightly forward. Overall, Jean was a kind woman, but Joe knew a rigid brutality was hidden beneath her quiet façade.

The only time Joe approached his son was to listen for the rasp in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was Arthur’s lungs or his own paranoia, but every time he checked, the gurgle seemed to be louder. Three times he took Anna aside and begged for her permission to retrieve the tank from the car. And three times she reminded him that she spoke with the nurse extensively and Arthur would be safe without oxygen for several hours at a time.

The new grandfathers agreed that it would be a shame to miss the CBS News coverage of the Apollo 17 launch. With Anna’s permission, they turned on the TV and let Walter Cronkite’s narration set the evening’s tone: “They’ve been there for a coupla weeks now, in isolation most of the time. The last time they saw their families was through a glass window this afternoon. The crew was up a little earlier than planned this morning, eleven o’clock, had a very light breakfast. They just finished a rather full dinner of steak, baked potato, glazed carrots, ice cream for dessert. They’ve suited up and at any moment they’re due out of the crew quarters.”

Chet twirled a finger through his blond goatee. “Can’t believe it’s over.”

“What’s over?” Don asked.

“Trips to the moon.”

“Only the Apollo missions are over, dillweed. NASA’s already inventing anti-gravity houses and cars for the next trip. We’ll be cruisin’ for space chicks by the nineties.”

“Tell me, Neil Armstrong, what exactly is an anti-gravity house?”

Cheryl interrupted before Don could make a fool of himself. “Maybe we should pray.”

“For what?”

“For safety for the crew. Especially Gene.”

Chet nudged Joe. “She bags Eugene Cernan’s groceries one time and now they’re on a first-name basis!”

“He’s a national hero,” Cheryl snapped. “I don’t see any of you landing on the moon.”

“All in good time,” Chet said.

“Besides, his wife and daughter must be terrified right now.”

A burst of static warbled Cronkite’s face on the TV. Everyone groaned. Before Joe could stand to fix it, his father leapt up, knelt beside the massive console, and began turning knobs.

Harold Dalton—Anna's father—laughed. “That television isn't from Lasker’s Department Store, is it John?”

Joe’s dad thumped the wooden panel and the picture cleared. “We carry the new model now.”

“Have you seen the new nineteen-inch portable from Sears?”

The room erupted into a simultaneous “Ooooo!” followed by fits of giggles.

“He said the dirty word!” cried Cheryl and thrust her finger at Harold.

“Nobody says the ‘S’ word around the Laskers,” added Chet.

“I’m just giving John a hard time,” said Harold. “I haven’t set foot in a Sears since my daughter’s wedding day, and I don’t plan to. After all, ‘Your kitchen—’”

Everyone chimed in, “‘—will looove Lasker’s!’”

Joe’s dad cracked a smile and Harold patted him on the back.

Joe turned and scanned the room for his wife. The moms were sharing tea with Judy at the dining-room table, the Hansworth kids were asleep like kittens in various perches around the house, and Anna was sitting in shadow of a grandfather clock, quietly rocking Arthur’s bassinet.